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I UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 

I 



LYRA HEROICA 



LYRA HEROICA 



A BOOK OF VERSE FOR BOYS 



SELECTED AND ARRANGED, BY 



WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY 



Sound, somid the clarion, fill the fife ! 

To all the sensual luorld proclaim 
One crowded hour of glorious life 

Is worth an age without a name. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



COPYRlG/y^ 

OCT 27 1391 ., , 




NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1 891 






COPYRIGHT, 189I, BY 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 



»** TAe selections ymm IValt JVhitinan are fuHishcd by permission of 
Mr. Whitman ; and those from Longfellow, Loivell, Whittier, and 
Jirei Harte, through the courtesy of Messrs. Houghton, Miffiin, 6* 
Co., the {lublishers of their works. 



TO WALTER BLAIKIE 

ARTIST-PRINTER 
MY PART IN THIS BOOK 

W. E. H. 

Edinburgh, July 1891. 



PREFACE 

This book of verse for boys is, I believe, the first of its 
kind in English. Plainly, it were labour lost to go glean- 
ing where so many experts have gone harvesting ; and for 
what is rarest and best in English Poetry the world must 
turn, as heretofore, to the several ' Golden Treasuries ' of 
Professor Palgrave and Mr. Coventry Patmore, and to the 
excellent ' Poets'' Walk ' of Mr. Mowbray Morris. My 
purpose has been to choose and sheave a certain number of 
tJiose achievements in verse which, as expressi7tg the simpler 
sentiments ajid the more elemental emotions, might fitly be 
addressed to such boys — and men, for that matter — as are 
privileged to 7ise our noble English tongue. 

To set forth, as only art can, the beauty and the joy of 
living, the beauty and the blessedness of death, the glory of 
battle and adventure, the nobility of devotion — to a cause, 
an ideal, a passion even — the dignity of resistance, the 
sacred quality of patriotism, that is my ambition here. 
Mow, to read poetry at all is to have an ideal anthology of 
07ie''s own, and in that possession to be incapable of content 
with the anthologies of all the world besides. That is, the 
personal equation is ever to be reckoned withal, and I have 
had my preferences, as those that went before me had theirs. 
I have omitted much, as Aytouti's ' Lays,'' whose absence 



viii PREFACE 

many will resent ; I have included tnuch, as that brilliant 
piece of doggerel of Frederick Marryafs, whose presence 
some will regard with distress. This without reference to 
citforconents due to the very nature of my work. 

I have adopted the birth-day order : for that is the sim- 
plest. And I have begun with — not Chaucer, nor Spenser, 
nor the ballads, but — Shakespeare and Agincourt ; for it 
seemed to me that a book of heroism could have no better 
starting-point than that heroic pair of natnes. As for the 
ballads, I have placed them, after much considering, in the 
gap between old and new, betweeji classic and romantic, z« 
English verse. The witness of Sidney and Drayton'' s ex- 
ample notwithstanding, it is not until 1765, when Percy 
publishes the ' Reliques,'' that the ballad spirit begins to be 
the master influence that Wordsworth confessed it was ; 
while as for the history of the matter, there are who hold 
that ' Sir Patrick Spens^ for exatnple, is the work of Lady 
Wardlaw, which to others, myself among than, is a thing 
preposterous and distraught. 

It remains to add that, addressing tnyself to boys, I have 
not scrupled to edit my authors where editing seemed desir- 
able, and that I have broken up some of the lotiger pieces 
for cojtvenietice in reading. Also, the help I have received 
while this book of ^ Noble Niimbers'^ was in course of growth 
— help in the way of counsel, suggestion, remonstrance, per- 
mission to use — has been such that it taxes gratitude and 
makes complete acknowledgment impossible. 

W. E. H. 



CONTENTS 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616) and 
MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631). 

I. AGINCOURT PAGE 

Introit ....... I 

Interlude ...... 2 

Hai-fleiir ...... 3 

The Eve ...... 4 

The Battle 6 

After 10 

SIR HENRY WOTTON (i 568-1 639). 

II. LORD OF HIMSELF II 

BEN JONSON (1574-1637). 

III. TRUE BALM 12 

IV. HONOUR IN BUD 1 3 

JOHN FLETCHER (1576-1625). 

V. THE JOY OF BATTLE . . . . 1 3 

FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1586-1616). 

VI. IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY . . . . 1 5 

ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674). 

VII. GOING A-MAYING 1 5 

VIII, TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY- 
THING 18 

ix 



X CONTENTS 

GEORGE HERBERT (1593- 1638). page 

IX. MEMENTO MORI ..... I9 

JAMES SHIRLEY (i 594-1 666). 

X. THE KING OF KINGS . . . . 20 

JOHN MILTON (160S-1674). 

XI. LYCIDAS 
XII. ARMS AND THE MUSE 

XIII. TO THE LORD GENERAL 

XIV. THE LATE MASSACRE 
XV. ON HIS BLINDNESS . 

XVI. EYELESS AT GAZA 
XVII. OUT OF ADVERSITY . 



21 

27 
28 
28 
29 
30 
31 



JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE 
(1612-1650). 

XVIII. HEROIC LOVE 3I 



RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658). 

XIX. GOING TO THE WARS .... 32 

XX. FROM PRISON 33 

ANDREW MARVELL (i 620-1 678). 

XXI. TWO KINGS 34 

XXII. IN EXILE 39 

JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1701). 

XXIII. ALEXANDER'S FEAST 4O 

SAMUEL JOHNSON (i 709-1 784). 

XXIV. THE QUIET LIFE 45 





CONTENTS 


xi 


BALLADS 






XXV. 


CHEVY CHASE 


PAGE 




The Hunting .... 


47 




The Challenge .... 


49 




The Battle 


51 




The Slain ..... 


54 




The Tidings ..... 


56 


XXVI. 


SIR PATRICK SPENS .... 


57 


XXVII. 


BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY 


60 


XXVIII, 


HUGHIE THE GR/EME 


64 


XXIX. 


KINMONT WILLIE 






T/ie Capture .... 


66 




The Keeper's Wrath . 


67 




The ATarch ..... 


69 




The Rescue ..... 


71 


XXX. 


THE HONOUR OF BRISTOL . 


73 


XXXI. 


HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL . 


77 


XXXII. 


THE TWA CORBIES 


79 



THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771). 

XXXIII, THE BARD .... 

WILLIAM COWPER (i 731-1800). 

XXXIV. THE ROYAL GEORGE . 
XXXV. BOADICEA .... 

GRAHAM OF GARTMORE (1735-1797). 

XXXVI. TO HIS LADY 



80 



85 

86 



CHARLES DIBDIN (1745-1814). 

XXXVII. CONSTANCY 
XXXVIII. THE PERFECT SAILOR 



90 



JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN (1750-1S17). 

XXXIX. THE DESERTER . 



91 



CONTENTS 



PRINCE HOARE (i 755-1 834). 

XL. THE ARETIIUSA . 



WILLIAM BLAKE (i 757-1823). 

XLI. THE liEAUTY OF TERROR 



ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796). 

XLI I. DEFIANCE . 
XLIII. THE GOAL OF LIFE 
XLIV. BEFORE PARTING 

XLV. DEVOTION . 
XLVI. TRUE UNTIL DEATH 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850), 

XLVII. VENICE 
XLVIII. DESTINY . 
XLIX. THE MOTHER LAND 
L. IDEAL 
LI. TO DUTY • 
LII. TWO VICTORIES . 



SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832). 

LIII. IN MEMORIAM . 
LIV. LOCHINVAR 
LV. FLODDEN 

The March . 
The Attack . 
The Last Stand 
LVI. THE CHASE 
LVII. THE OUTLAW 
LVIII. PIBROCH . 
LIX. THE OMNIPOTENT 
LX, THE RED HARLAW 
LXI. FAREWELL . 
LXII. BONNY DUNDEE 



PAGE 
92 

94 



95 
96 

97 
98 

99 



100 

lOI 
lOI 

102 
103 
105 



107 
112 

114 
116 
119 
121 

126 
129 
130 
»3i 

134 



CONTENTS xiii 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (1772-1834). page 

LXIII. ROMANCE 1 36 

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (i 775-1864). 

LXIV. SACRIFICE 1 38 

THOMAS CAMPBELL (i 777-1 844). 

LXV. SOLDIER AND SAILOR .... I40 

LXVI. 'YE MARINERS' I43 

LXVII. THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC . . . I44 

EBENEZER ELLIOTT (1781-1846). 

LXVIII. BATTLE SONG I46 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (i 785-1 842). 

LXIX. LOYALTY I47 

LXX. A SEA-SONG 1 48 

BRYANT WALLER PROCTOR (17S7-1874). 

LXXI. A SONG OF THE SEA .... I49 

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (i 788-1 824). 

LXXII. SENNACHERIB 150 

LXXIII. THE STORMING OF CORINTH 

The Signal 151 

The Assault 153 

The Alagazine ..... 156 

LXXIV. ALHAMA 160 

LXXV. FRIENDSHIP 164 

LXXVI. THE RACE WITH DEAIH . . . . 165 

LXXMI. THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE . . 1 67 

LXXVIII. HAIL AND FAREWELL . . . . I7I 

CHARLES WOLFE (i 791-1823). 

LXXIX. AFTER CORUNNA 1 72 



xiv CONTENTS 

FREDERICK MARRYAT (1792-1848). page 

LXXX. THE OLD NAVY 1 74 

FELICIA HEMANS (1793-1825). 

LXXXI. CASABIANCA 1 75 

LXXXII. THE PILGRIM FATHERS . . . -177 

JOHN KEATS (1796-1821). 

LXXXIII. TO THE ADVENTUROUS . . . .179 

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY 
( I 800-1 859). 

LXXXIV. HORATIUS 

The Try sting 179 

The Trouble in Rome . . . .183 

The Keeping of the Bridge . . . 189 
Father Tiber . . . . .196 

LXXXV. THE ARMADA 200 

LXXXVI. THE LAST BUCCANEER .... 205 

LXXXVII. A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH .... 206 

ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER (1S03-1875). 

LXXXVIII. THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN . . 207 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

(1807-1882). 

LXXXIX. THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP 

The Model 208 

The Builders 210 

In the Ship- Yard 214 

The Ttvo Bridals 217 

XC. THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE . 223 

XCI. THE CUMBERLAND 227 

XCII. A DUTCH PICTURE 228 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER {b. 1807). 

XCIII. BARBARA FRIETCHIE 23O 



CONTENTS 



XV 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON {b. 1809). 

XCIV, A BALLAD OF THE FLEET . 
XCV. THE HEAVY BRIGADE 

SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE (i8io-i{ 

XCVI. THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS 
XCVII. THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR . 

ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1890). 

XCVHI. HOME THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA 
XCIX. HERV£ RIEL .... 



PAGE 
232 
239 



242 
244 



248 
248 



WALT WHITMAN (b. 1819). 

C. THE DYING FIREMAN 
CI. A SEA-FIGHT 

cii. beat! beat! drums! 

cm. TWO VETERANS . 



254 

257 
258 



CHARLES KINGSLEY (1819-1875). 

CIV. THE PLEASANT ISLE OF AVES 
CV. A WELCOME 



260 
262 



SIR HENRY YULE (1820- 1889). 

CVI. THE BIRKENHEAD 



264 



MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-188S). 

CVII. APOLLO 

CVIII. THE DEATH OF SOHRAB 
The Duel 
Sohrab . 
The Recognition 
Ruksh the Horse 
Rusttim . 
Night . 

CIX. FLEE FRO' THE PRESS 



265 

267 
269 
272 

275 
277 
280 
282 



XVI 



CONTENTS 



WILLIAM CORY (3. 1823). page 

ex. SCHOOL FENCIBLES 284 

CXI. THE TWO CAPTAINS 285 

GEORGE MEREDITH (^. 1828). 

CXII. THE HEAD OF ERAN 29O 

WILLIAM MORRIS {b. 1834). 

CXIII. THE SLAYING OF THE NIBLUNGS 

Hogni 293 

Giinnar ...... 297 

Gudrun 301 

The Sons of GiuJd .... 3^4 

ALFRED AUSTIN {b. 1835). 

CXIV. IS LIFE WORTH LIVING? .... 308 



SIR ALFRED LYALL {b. 1835). 

CXV. THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS 



3" 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE {b. 1837). 

CXVI. THE OBLATION 31 6 

CXVII. ENGLAND 317 

CXVIII. THE JACOBITE IN EXILE .... 319 

BRET HARTE {b. 1839). 

CXIX. THE REVEILLfc 322 

CXX. WHAT THE BULLET SANG .... 323 

AU.STIN DOBSON {b. 1S40). 

CXXI. A BALLAD OF THE ARMADA . . . 324 

ANDREW LANG {b. 1844). 

CXXII. THE WHITE PACHA 325 



CONTENTS xvii 

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON {b. 1850). page 

CXXIII. MOTHER AND SON 326 

HENRY CHARLES BEECHING {b. 1S59). 

CXXIV. PR.\YERS 328 

RUDYARD KIPLING {b. 1S65). 

CXXV. A BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST . . . 329 

CXXVI. THE FLAG OF ENGLAND . . . 335 

NOTES 341 

INDEX 359 



For I trust, if an etieiny^s fleet came yonder round by 

the hill. 
And the rusliing battle-bolt sang from the tJtrce-decker 

out of the foam. 
That the smoothfaced snub-nosed rogue would leap from 

his counter and till. 

And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating 

yard-wand, home. 

Tennyson. 



LYRA HEROICA 



AGINCOURT 

INTRO IT 

O FOR a Muse of fire, that would ascend 

The brightest heaven of invention, 

A kingdom for a stage, princes to act 

And monarchs to behold the swelling scene! 

Then should the warlike Harry, like himself. 

Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels. 

Leashed in like hounds, should Famine, Sword and 

Fire 
Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all. 
The flat unraised spirits that have dared 
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth 
So great an object. Can this cockpit hold 
The vasty fields of France ? or may we cram 
Within this wooden O the very casques 
That did affright the air at Agincourt? 
O pardon ! since a crooked figure may 
Attest in little place a million. 
And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, 
On your imaginary forces work. 
Suppose within the girdle of these walls 
Are now confined two mighty monarchies. 



2 SHAKESPEARE 

Whose high upreared and abutting fronts 

The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder : 

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts; 

Into a thousand parts divide one man, 

And niake imaginary puissance ; 

Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them 

Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth; 

For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, 

Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times, 

Turning the accomplishment of many years 

Into an hour-erlass. 



INTERLUDE 

Now all the youth of England are on fire, 
And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies: 
Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thought 
Reigns solely in the breast of every man : 
They sell the pasture now to buy the horse, 
Following the mirror of all Christian kings, 
With winged heels, as English Mercuries : 
For now sits Expectation in the air. 
And hides a sword from hilts unto the point 
With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets, 
Promised to Harry and his followers. 
The French, advised by good intelligence 
Of this most dreadful preparation. 
Shake in their fear, and with pale policy 
Seek to divert the English purposes. 
O England ! model to thy inward greatness. 
Like little body with a mighty heart, 




SHAKESPEARE 3 

What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do, 

Were all thy children kind and natural ! 

But see thy fault: France hath in thee found out 

A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills 

With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men, 

One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second, 

Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third. 

Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland, 

Have for the gilt of France — O guilt indeed ! — 

Confirmed conspiracy with fearful France; 

And by their hands this grace of kings must die, 

If hell and treason hold their promises. 

Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton ! — 

HARFLEUR 

Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies 
In motion of no less celerity 

Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen 
The well-appointed king at Hampton Pier 
Embark his royalty, and his brave fleet 
With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning : 
Play with your fancies, and in them behold 
Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing; 
Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give 
To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails, 
Borne with the invisible and creeping wind 
Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea 
Breasting the lofty surge. O, do but think 
You stand upon the rivage and behold 
A city on the inconstant billows dancing ! 



4 SHAKESPEARE 

For so appears this fleet majestical, 
Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow : 
Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, 
And leave your England, as dead midnight still, 
Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women. 
Or passed or not arrived to pith and puissance; 
For who is he, whose chin is but enriched 
With one appearing hair, that will not follow 
These culled and choice-drawn cavaliers to France ? 
Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege : 
Behold the ordnance on their carriages. 
With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur. 
Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back; 
Tells Harry that the king doth offer him 
Katharine his daughter, and with her to dowry 
Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms. 
The offer likes not : and the nimble gunner 
With linstock now the devilish cannon touches. 
And down goes all before them ! 

THE EVE 

Now entertain conjecture of a time 

When creeping murmur and the poring dark 

Fills the wide vessel of the universe. 

From camp to camp through the foul womb of night 

The hum of either army stilly sounds. 

That the fixed sentinels almost receive 

The secret whispers of each other's watch: 

Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames 

Each battle sees the other's umbered face; 



SHAKESPEARE 

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs 

Piercing the night's dull ear, and from the tents 

The armourers, accomplishing the knights, 

With busy hammers closing rivets up, 

Give dreadful note of preparation. 

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll. 

And the third hour of drowsy morning name. 

Proud of their numbers and secure in soul. 

The confident and over-lusty French 

Do the low-rated English play at dice. 

And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited night 

Who like a foul and ugly witch doth limp 

So tediously away. The poor condemned English, 

Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires 

Sit patiently and inly ruminate 

The morning's danger, and their gesture sad, 

Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats, 

Presenteth them unto the gazing moon 

So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold 

The royal captain of this ruined band 

Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, 

Let him cry 'Praise and glory on his head ! ' 

For forth he goes and visits all his host. 

Bids them good-morrow with a modest smile. 

And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen. 

Upon his royal face there is no note 

How dread an army hath enrounded him; 

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour 

Unto the weary and all-watched night. 

But freshly looks and over-bears attaint 

With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty, 



DRAYTON 

That every wretch, pining and pale before, 
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks. 
A largess universal like the sun 
His liberal eye doth give to every one, 
Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all, 
Behold, as may unworthiness define, 
A little touch of Harry in the night — 
And so our scene must to the battle fly. 

Shakespeare. 
THE BAITLE 

Fair stood the wind for France, 
When we our sails advance. 
Nor now to prove our chance 

Longer will tarry; 
But putting to the main, 
At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train, 

Landed King Harry. 
And taking many a fort. 
Furnished in warlike sort. 
Marched towards Agincourt 

In happy hour, 
Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopped his way, 
Where the French gen'ral lay 

With all his power: 
Which, in his height of pride, 
King Henry to deride. 
His ransom to provide 

To the king sending; 



DRAYTON 

Which he neglects the while 
As from a nation vile, 
Yet with an angry smile 
Their fall portending. 

And turning to his men, 
Quoth our brave Henry then, 
* Though they to one be ten, 

Be not amazed. 
Yet have we well begun, 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raised. 

And for myself, quoth he. 
This my full rest shall be : 
England ne'er mourn for me, 

Nor more esteem me ; 
Victor I will remain 
Or on this earth lie slain; 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 

Poitiers and Cressy tell. 

When most their pride did swell, 

Under our swords they fell; 

No less our skill is 
Than when our grandsire great. 
Claiming the regal seat, 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French lilies.' 



DRAYTON 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led; 
With the main Henry sped, 

Amongst his henchmen; 
Excester had the rear, 
A braver man not there : 
O Lord, how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen ! 

They now to fight are gone, 
Armour on armour shone, 
Drum now to drum did groan, 

To hear was wonder; 
That with the cries they make 
The very earth did shake. 
Trumpet to trumpet spake, 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham, 
Which did the signal aim 

To our hid forces ! 
When from the meadow by, 
Like a storm suddenly, 
The English archery 

Struck the French horses. 

With Spanish yew so strong, 
Arrows a cloth-yard long. 
That like to serpents stung, 
Piercing the weather; 



DRAYTON 

None from his fellow starts, 
But playing manly parts, 
And like true English hearts 
Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilbos drew. 
And on the French they flew, 

Not one was tardy; 
Arms were from shoulders sent, 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went; 

Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble king. 
His broadsword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding 

As to o'erwhelm it. 
And many a deep wound lent. 
His arms with blood besprent. 
And many a cruel dent 

Bruised his helmet. 

Glo'ster, that duke so good, 
Next of the royal blood. 
For famous England stood. 

With his brave brother; 
Clarence, in steel so bright. 
Though but a maiden knight, 
Yet in that furious fight 

Scarce such another ! 



10 SHAKESPEARE 

"Warwick in blood did wade, 
Oxford the foe invade, 
And cruel slaughter made, 

Still as they ran up; 
Suffolk his axe did ply, 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's Day 
Fought was this noble fray, 
Which fame did not delay, 

To England to carry. 
O, when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen, 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry? 



Drayton. 



AFl^ER 



Now we bear the king 
Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen, 
Heave him away upon your wanged thoughts 
Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach 
Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, 
\Vhose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouthed 

sea, 
Which like a mighty whifider 'fore the king 
Seems to prepare his way : so let him land. 
And solemnly see him set on to London. 
So swift a pace hath thought that even now 



WOTTON 11 

You may imagine him upon Blackheath; 
Where that his lords desire him to have borne 
His bruised hehnet and his bended sword 
Before him through the city : he forbids it, 
Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride, 
(jiving full trophy, signal and ostent, 
Quite from himself to God. But now behold, 
In the quick forge and working-house of thought. 
How London doth pour out her citizens ! 
The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, 
Like to the senators of the antique Rome, 
V\'ith the plebeians swarming at their heels. 
Go forth and fetch their conquering Coesar in! 

Shakespeare, 



LORD OF HIMSELF 

How happy is he born or taught 
Who sei-veth not another's will; 

Whose armour is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his highest skill; 

Whose passions not his masters are; 

W^hose soul is still prepared for death — 
Not tied unto the world with care 

Of prince's ear or vulgar breath; 

Who hath his ear from rumours freed; 

Whose conscience is his strong retreat; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 

Nor ruin make oppressors great; 



12 JONSON 

Who envies none whom chance doth raise, 
Or vice; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given with praise, 
Nor rules of state but rules of good; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend, 

And entertains the harmless day 

With a well-chosen book or friend — 

This man is free from servile bands 
Of hope to rise or fear to fall : 

Lord of himself, though not of lands, 
And, having nothing, yet hath all. 

IVoiion. 



in 
TRUE BALM 

High-spirited friend, 
I send nor balms nor corsives to your wound; 

Your faith hath found 
A gentler and more agile hand to tend 
The cure of that which is but corporal, 
And doubtful days, which were named critical. 

Have made their fairest flight 

And now are out of sight. 
Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind, 

Wrapped in this paper lie, 
Which in the taking if you misapply 
You are unkind. 



JONSON : FLETCHER 13 

Your covetous hand, 
Happy in that fair honour it hath gained, 

Must now be reined. 
True valour doth her own renown commend 
In one full action; nor have you now more 
To do than be a husband of that store. 

Think but how dear you bought 

This same which you have caught — 
Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth, 

'Tis wisdom, and that high, 
For men to use their fortune reverently, 
Even in youth. 

IV 

HONOUR IN BUD 

It is not growing like a tree 

In bulk doth make man better be : 

A lily of a day 

Is fairer far in May : 
Although it fall and die that night. 
It was the plant and flower of light. 

yonson. 



THE JOY OF BATTLE 

Arm, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in; 
Keep your ranks close, and now your honours win. 
Behold from yonder hill the foe appears; 
Bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears! 



14 JOHN FLETCHER 

Like a darK wood he comes, or tempest pouring; 
O view the wings of horse the meadows scouring ! 
The vanguard marches bravely. Hark, the drums ! 

Dub, dub! 

They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes,- 
See how the arrows fly 
That darken all the sky ! 
Hark how the trumpets sound ! 
Hark how the hills rebound — 

Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara ! 

Hark how the horses charge ! in, boys ! boys, in ! 
The battle totters; now the wounds begin: 

O how they cry ! 

O how they die ! 
Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder ! 

See how he breaks the ranks asunder ! 
They fly ! they fly ! Eumenes has the chase, 
And brave Polybius makes good his place : 

To the plains, to the woods, 

To the rocks, to the floods, 
They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow ! 
Hark how the soldiers hollow! 

Hey, hey! 

Brave Diodes is dead. 
And all his soldiers fled ; 
The battle's won, and lost. 
That many a life hath cost. 



BEAUMONT : HERRICK 15 



IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

Mortality, behold and fear ! 

What a change of flesh is here ! 

Think how many royal bones 

Sleep beneath this heap of stones ! 

Here they lie had realms and lands, 

Who now want strength to stir their hands. 

Here from their pulpits sealed with dust 

They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.' 

Here is an acre sown indeed 

With the richest, royall'st seed 

That the earth did e'er suck in. 

Since the first man died for sin. 

Here the bones of birth have cried, 

'Though gods they were, as men they died.' 

Here are sands, ignoble things, 

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings. 

Here's a world of pomp and state, 

Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 

Beaumont. 

VII 

GOING A-MAYING 

Get up, get up for shame ! The blooming morn 
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn : 
See how Aurora throws her fair 
Fresh-quilted colours through the air : 



IG HERRICK 

Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 
The dew-bespangled herb and tree ! 

Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east, 

Above an hour since, yet you not drest, 
Nay, not so much as out of bed? 
When all the birds have matins said. 
And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, 
Nay, profanation, to keep in, 

Whenas a thousand virgins on this day 

Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May. 

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen 

To come forth like the spring-time fresh and green. 

And sweet as Flora. Take no care 

For jewels for your gown or hair: 

Fear not; the leaves will strew 

Gems in abundance upon you : 
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, 
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. 

Come, and receive them while the light 

Hangs on the dew-locks of the night, 

And Titan on the eastern hill 

Retires himself, or else stands still 
Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in 

praying: 
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying. 

Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark 
How each field turns a street, each street a park. 

Made green and trimmed with trees! see how 

Devotion gives each house a bough 



ll 



HERRICK 17 

Or branch ! each porch, each door, ere this, 

An ark, a tabernacle is. 
Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, 
As if here were those cooler shades of love. 

Can such delights be in the street 

And open fields, and we not see 't? 

Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey 

The proclamation made for May, 
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying. 
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. 

There's not a budding boy or girl this day, 
But is got up and gone to bring in May. 

A deal of youth ere this is come 

Back and with white-thorn laden home. 

Some have despatched their cakes and cream. 

Before that we have left to dream : 
And some have wept and wooed, and plighted troth, 
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth : 

Many a green-gown has been given. 

Many a kiss, both odd and even : 

Many a glance too has been sent 

From out the eye, love's firmament: 
Many a jest told of the keys betraying 
This night, and locks picked: yet we're not a-May- 
ing. 

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, 
And take the harmless folly of the time ! 

We shall grow old apace, and die 

Before we know our liberty. 



18 HERRICK 

Our life is short, and our days run 

As fast away as does the sun. 
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain. 
Once lost can ne'er be found again, 

So when or you or I are made 

A fable, song, or fleeting shade, 

All love, all liking, all delight. 

Lies drowned with us in endless night. 
Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying. 
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. 

VIII 

TO ANTHEA 

WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING 

Bid me to live, and I will live 

Thy Protestant to be ; 
Or bid me love and I will give 

A loving heart to thee. 

A heart as soft, a heart as kind, 

A heart as sound and free. 
As in the whole world thou canst find, 

That heart I'll give to thee. 

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay 

To honour thy decree; 
Or bid it languish quite away. 

And 't shall do so for thee. 

Bid me to weep, and I will v/eep 

While I have eyes to see; 
And, having none, yet I will keep 

A heart to weep for thee. 



HERBERT 19 

Bid me despair, and I'll despair 

Under that cypress-tree; 
Or bid me die, and I will dare 

E'en death to die for thee. 

Thou art my life, my love, my heart, 

The very eyes of me. 
And hast command of every part, 

To live and die for thee. 

Herrick. 

IX 

MEMENTO MORI 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright — 
The bridal of the earth and sky — 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. 
Thy root is ever in its grave. 
And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie, 
My music shows ye have your closes, 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul 
Like seasoned timber never gives, 
But, though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 



20 SHIRLEY 



THE KING OF KINGS 

The glories of our birth and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things: 
There is no armour against fate : 
Death lays his icy hand on kings : 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spnde. 

Some men v/ith swords may reap the field. 

And plant fresh laurels when they kill, 
But their strong nerves at last must yield : 
They tame but one another still. 
Early or late 
I'hey stoop to fate. 
And must give up their murmuring breath 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on their brow — 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ! 
Upon Death's purple altar now 

See where the victor-victim bleeds ! 
All heads must come 
To the cold tomb : 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 



MILTON 21 

XI 

LYCIDAS 

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, 
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, 
And with forced fingers rude 
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, 
Compels me to disturb your season due : 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime. 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: 
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 
Himself to sing and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind. 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Begin, then, sisters of the sacred v/ell, 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string; 
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse: 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favour my destined urn, 
And, as he passes, turn 
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud ! 

For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill. 
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. 
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 
Under the opening eyelids of the morn, 
We drove afield, and both together heard 
What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn 



22 MILTON 

Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 

Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 

Towards heaven's descent had sloped his westering 

wheel. 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 
Tempered to the oaten flute; 
Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel 
From the glad sound would not be absent long; 
And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. 

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone. 
Now thou art gone, and never must return ! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 
And all their echoes, mourn. 
The willows and the hazel copses green 
Shall now no more be seen 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
As killing as the canker to the rose. 
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze. 
Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear 
When first tlie white-thorn blows. 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds' ear. 

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : 
Ay me ! I fondly dream 

'Had ye been there,' ... for what could that have 
done? 



MILTON 23 

What could the Muse herseh' that Orpheus bore, 
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son 
Whom universal nature did lament, 
When by the rout that made the hideous roar 
His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? 

Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, 
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 
Were it not better done, as others use. 
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade 
Or with the tangles of Neasra's hair? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 
(That last infirmity of noble mind) 
To scorn delights and live laborious days ; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find. 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears. 
And slits the thin-spun life. ' But not the praise,' 
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembUng ears : 
* Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 
Nor in the glistering foil 
Set off to the world nor in broad rumour lies. 
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.' 

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood. 
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, 
That strain I heard v/as of a higher mood ! 
But now my oat proceeds, 



24 MILTON 

And listens to the Herald of the Sea 

That came in Neptune's plea. 

He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, 

What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? 

And questioned every gust of rugged wings 

That blows from off each beaked promontory : 

They knew not of his story, 

And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 

That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed : 

The air was calm, and on the level brine 

Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 

It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 

Built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark, 

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, 
His mantle hair}^ and his bonnet sedge. 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. 
*Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge?' 
Last came, and last did go, 
The Pilot of the Galilean Lake; 
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). 
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 
*How well could I have spared for thee, young 

swain. 
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ! 
Of other care they little reckoning make 
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest; 



MILTON 25 

Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to 

hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least 
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! 
What recks it them? What need they? They are 

sped ; 
And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; 
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 
But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, 
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread : 
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 
Daily devours apace, and nothing said: 
But that two-handed engine at the door 
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.' 

Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past 
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks. 
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks; 
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes 
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 
The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine, 
The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet, 
The glowing violet. 

The musk-rose and the well-attired woodbine. 
With cowslips v/an that hang the pensive head. 



26 MILTON 

And every flower that sad embroidery wears : 

Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, 

And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, 

To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. 

For, so to interpose a little ease, 

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; 

Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 

Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled; 

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 

Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 

Visit' St the bottom of the monstrous world; 

Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 

Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. 

Where the great vision of the guarded mount 

Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold; 

Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth: 

And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more. 
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead. 
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high. 
Through the dear might of Him that walked the 

waves, 
Where, other groves and other streams along, 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 



MILTON 27 

There entertain him all the Saints above, 
In solemn troops and sweet societies 
That sing, and singing in their glory move, 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; 
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills. 
While the still morn went out with sandals grey; 
He touched the tender stops of various quills. 
With eager thought warbling his Doric 'lay : 
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 
And now was dropt into the western bay : 
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue; 
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 

XII 

ARMS AND THE MUSE 

WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED ON THE CITY 

Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms, 

Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize. 

If deed of honour did thee ever please. 

Guard them, and him within protect from harms. 

He can requite thee; for he knows the charms 

That call fame on such gentle acts as these. 

And he can spread thy name o'er land and seas, 

Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. 

Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower: 



28 MILTON 

The great Emanthian conqueror bid spare 
The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower 
Went to the ground; and the repeated air 
Of sad Electra's poet had the power 
To'save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. 



XIII 

TO THE LORD GENERAL 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 

Not of war only, but detractions rude, 

Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, 

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, 

And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 

Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued. 

While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued. 

And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud. 

And Worcester's laureate wreath: yet much remains 

To conquer still; peace hath her victories 

No less renowned than war : new foes arise, 

Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. 

Help us to save free conscience from the paw 

Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw. 

XIV 

THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT 

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; 
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, 



MILTON 2a 

When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, 
Forget not : in thy book record their groans 
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolled 
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow 
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 
The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow 
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 



XV 

ON HIS BLINDNESS 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, 

And that one talent which is death to hide 

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest He, returning, chide; 

'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? ' 

1 fondly ask : but patience, to prevent 

That murmur soon replies: 'God doth not need 

Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best 

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state 

Is kingly : thousands at his bidding speed, 

And post o'er land and ocean without rest; 

They also serve who only stand and wait.' 



3a MILTON 

XVI 

EYELESS AT GAZA 

This, this is he; softly a while; 

Let us not break in upon him. 

O change beyond report, thought, or belief ! 

See how he lies at random, carelessly diffused 

With languished head unpropt, 

As one past hope, abandoned, 

And by himself given over. 

In slavish habit, ill-fitted weeds 

O'er-worn and soiled. 

Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be he, 

That heroic, that renowned. 

Irresistible Samson? whom unarmed 

No strength of man or fiercest wild beast could with- 
stand; 

Who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid; 

Ran on embattled armies clad in iron, 

And, weaponless himself, 

Made arms ridiculous, useless the forgery 

Of brazen shield and spear, the hammered cuirass, 

Chalybean-tempered steel, and frock of mail 

Adamant^an proof : But safest he who stood aloof. 

When insupportably his foot advanced. 

In scorn of their proud arms and warlike tools. 

Spurned them to death by troops. The bold 
Ascalonite 

Fled from his lion ramp; old warriors turned 

Their plated backs under his heel. 

Or grovelling soiled their crested helmets in the dust. 



MONTROSE 31 

XVII 

OUT OF ADVERSITY 

O HOW comely it is, and how reviving 
To the spirits of just men long oppressed, 
When God into the hands of their deliverer 
Puts invincible might 

To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor, 
The brute and boisterous force of violent men, 
Hardy and industrious to support 
Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue 
The righteous and all such as honour truth ! 
He all their ammunition 
And feats of war defeats. 
With plain heroic magnitude of mind 
And celestial vigour armed ; 
Their armouries and magazines contemns. 
Renders them useless, while 
With winged expedition 
Swift as the lightning glance he executes 
His errand on the wicked, who, surprised, 
Lose their defence, distracted and amazed. 

Milton. 

XVIII 

HEROIC LOVE 

Mv dear and only love, I pray 

That little world of thee 
Be governed by no other sway 

But purest monarchy; 



32 LOVELACE 

For if confusion have a part, 

Which virtuous souls abhor. 
And hold a synod in thy heart, 

I'll never love thee more. 

Like Alexander I will reign, 

And I will reign alone : 
My thoughts did evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne. 
He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 
Who dares not put it to the touch, 

To gain or lose it all. 

But, if thou wilt prove faithful then 

And constant of thy word, 
I'll make thed glorious by my pen. 

And famous by my sword ; 
I'll serve thee in such noble ways 

Was never heard before ; 
I'll crown and deck thee all with bays 

And love thee more and more. 

Motitrose, 



XDC 

GOING TO THE WARS 

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind. 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind 

To war and arms I fly. 



LOVELACE 33 

True, a new mistress now I chase, 

The first foe in the field, 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you too shall adore : 
I could not love thee, Dear, so much 

Loved I not Honour more. 



XX 

FROM PRISON 

When Love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within my gates. 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fettered to her eye, 
The Gods that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses crowned, 

Our hearts with loyal flames; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep. 

When healths and draughts go free, 
Fishes that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty. 



3-1 MARVELL 

When, linnet-like confined, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 

And glories of my King; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
Enlarged winds that curl the flood 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone that soar above 

Enjoy such liberty. 

Lovelace. 



XXI 

TWO KINGS 

The forward youth that would appear 
Must now forsake his Muses dear. 
Nor in the shadows sing 
His numbers languishing. 

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 
And oil the unused armour's rust, 
Removing from the wall 
The corselet of the hall. 



MARVELL 35 

So lestless Cromwell could not cease 
In the inglorious arts of peace, 

But through adventurous war 

Urged his active star; 

And, like the three-forked lightning, first 
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, 

Did thorough his own side 

His fiery way divide; 

For 'tis all one to courage high, 
The emulous or enemy. 

And with such to inclose 

Is more than to oppose; 

Then burning through the air he went, 
And palaces and temples rent; 

And Caesar's head at last 

Did through his laurels blast. 

'Tis madness to resist or blame 
The face of angry Heaven's flame; 

And if we would speak true, 

Much to the man is due. 

Who from his private gardens, where 
He lived reserved and austere. 

As if his highest plot 

To plant the bergamot. 

Could by industrious valour climb 
To ruin the great work of Time, 

And cast the kingdoms old 

Into another mould. 



36 MARVELL 

Though Justice against Fate complain, 
And plead the ancient rights in vain 
(But those do hold or break, 
As men are strong or weak). 

Nature, that hated emptiness. 

Allows of penetration less, 

And therefore must make room 
Where greater spirits come. 

What field of all the civil war. 
Where his were not the deepest scar? 

And Hampton shows what part 

He had of wiser art. 

Where, twining subtile fears with hope. 
He wove a net of such a scope 

That Charles himself might chase 
To Carisbrook's narrow case. 

That thence the royal actor borne 
The tragic scaffold might adorn : 
While round the armed bands, 
Did clap their bloody hands. 

He nothing common did or mean 
Upon that memorable scene, 
But with his keener eye 
The axe's edge did try; 

Nor called the gods with vulgar spite 
To vindicate his helpless right. 

But bowed his comely head 

Down, as upon a bed. 



MARVELL 37 

This was that memorable hour 
Which first assured the forced power: 

So, when they did design 
The Capitol's first line, 

A bleeding head, where they begun, 
Did fright the architects to run; 

And yet in that the State 

Foresaw its happy fate ! 

And now the Irish are ashamed 

To see themselves in one year tamed : 

So much one man can do 

That doth both act and know. 

They can afifirm his praises best. 

And have, though overcome, confessed 

Hovv^ good he is, how just. 

And fit for highest trust; 

Nor yet grown stiffer with command, 
But still in the Republic's hand 

(How fit he is to sway, 

That can so well obey !), 

He to the Commons' feet presents 
A kingdom for his first year's rents, 

And (what he may) forbears 

His fame to make it theirs: 

And has his sword and spoils ungirt 
To lay them at the public's skirt. 

So when the falcon high 

Falls heavy from the sky, 



38 MARVELL 

She, having killed, no more doth search 
But on the next green bough to perch, 
Where, when he first does lure, 
The falconer has her sure. 

What may not then our isle presume 
While victory his crest does plume? 
What may not others fear 
If thus he crowns each year? 

As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul, 
To Italy an Hannibal, 

And to all states not free 

Shall climacteric be. 

The Pict no shelter now shall find 
Within his party-coloured mind, 
But from this valour sad 
Shrink underneath the plaid; 

Happy if in the tufted brake 
The English hunter him mistake. 

Nor lay his hounds in near 

The Caledonian deer. 

But thou, the war's and fortune's son, 

March indefatigably on. 
And for the last effect. 
Still keep the sword erect: 

Besides the force it has to fright 
The spirits of the shady night. 
The same arts that did gain, 
A power must it maintain. 



MARVELL 39 

XXII 

IN EXILE 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 
In the Ocean's bosom unespied, 
From a small boat that rowed along 
The listening winds received this song. 

'What should we do but sing his praise 
That led us through the watery maze, 
Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks 
That lift the deep upon their backs, 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 
And yet far kinder than our own? 
He lands us on a grassy stage, 
Safe from the storms and prelates' rage : 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels everything. 
And sends the fowls to us in care 
On daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the orange bright 
Like golden lamps in a green night. 
And does in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows : 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet. 
And throws the melons at our feet; 
But apples plants of such a price, 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 
With cedars chosen by his hand 
From Lebanon he stores the land, 
And makes the hollow seas that roar 
Proclaim the ambergrease on shore. 



40 DRYDEN 

He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast, 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple where to sound his name. 
O let our voice his praise exalt 
'Till it arrive at heaven's vault, 
Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may 
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay!' 

Thus sang they in the English boat 
A holy and a cheerful note : 
And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time. 

Marvcll. 

XXIII 

ALEXANDER'S FEAST 

'TwAS at the royal feast for Persia won 
fjy Philip's warlike son: 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 
On his imperial throne; 
His valiant peers were placed around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound 

(So should desert in arms be crowned); 
The lovely Thais by his side 
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair! 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair ! 



DRYDEN 41 

Timotheus, placed on high 
Amid the tuneful quire, 
With fl3'ing fingers touched the lyre: 

The trembling notes ascend the sky 
And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove 
Who left his blissful seats above, 
Such is the power of mighty love ! 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god; 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode * 
When he to fair Olympia pressed, 
And while he sought her snowy breast. 
Then round her slender waist he curled. 
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the 
world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound; 
A present deity ! they shout around : 
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound: 
With ravished ears 
The monarch hears, 
Assumes the god; 
Affects to nod 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician 
sung, 
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young : 
The jolly god in triumph comes; 
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ! 
Flushed with a purple grace 
He shows his honest face : 



42 DRYDEN 

Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young, 

Drinking joys did first ordain; 
.Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure, 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

Soothed with the sound the king grew vain; 
Fought all his battles o'er again, 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew 
the slain! 
The master saw the madness rise, 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 
And while he heaven and earth defied 
Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 
He chose a mournful Muse 
Soft pity to infuse : 
He sung Darius great and good, 

By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen. 

Fallen from his high estate, 
And weltering in his blood; 
Deserted at his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed. 
On the bare earth exposed he lies 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate. 
Revolving in his altered soul 

The various turns of Chance below; 



DRYDEN 43 

And now and then a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree; 
'Twas but a kindred-sound to move, 
For pity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sang, is toil and trouble, 
Honour but an empty bubble; 

Never ending, still beginning. 
Fighting still, and still destroying; 

If the world be worth thy winning. 
Think, O think, it worth enjoying: 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 
Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applause; 
So love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain. 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again : 
At length, with love and wine at once oppressed. 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 

Now strike the golden lyre again: 

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! 

Break his bands of sleep asunder 

And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 



44 DRYDEN 

Hark, hark ! the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head : 
As awaked from the dead, 
And amazed he stares around. 
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, 
See the Furies arise ! 
See the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair, 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! 
Behold a ghastly band. 
Each a torch in his hand ! 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain 
And unburied remain 
Inglorious on the plain: 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew ! 
Behold how they toss their torches on high. 

How they point to the Persian abodes 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods. 
The princes applaud with a furious joy: 
And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 
Thais led the way 
To light him to his prey. 
And like another Helen fired another Troy ! 

Thus long ago, 
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 
While organs yet were mute, 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre. 
Could swell the soul to rage or kindle soft desire. 



JOHNSON 45 

At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame; 
The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With Nature's mother-wit and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown : 
He raised a mortal to the skies; 
She drew an angel down. 

Dryden. 



XXIV 

THE QUIET LIFE 

Condemned to Hope's delusive mine. 
As on we toil from day to day, 

By sudden blast or slow decline 
Our social comforts drop away. 

Well tried through many a varying year. 
See Levett to the grave descend : 

Officious, innocent, sincere. 

Of every friendless name the friend. 

Yet still he fills affection's eye, 
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; 

Nor, lettered arrogance, deny 
Thy praise to merit unrefined. 



46 JOHNSON 

When fainting Nature called for aid, 
And hovering death prepared the blow, 

His vigorous remedy displayed 

The power of art without the show. 

In misery's darkest caverns known. 
His ready help was ever nigh, 

Where hopeless anguish poured his groan, 
And lonely want retired to die. 

No summons mocked by chill delay, 
No petty gains disdained by pride : 

The modest wants of every day 
The toil of every day supplied. 

His virtues walked their narrow round, 
Nor made a pause, nor left a void; 

And sure the eternal Master found 
His single talent well employed. 

The busy day, the peaceful night, 
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; 

His frame was firm, his powers were bright, 
Though now his eightieth year was nigh. 

Then, with no throbs of fiery pain, 

No cold gradations of decay. 
Death broke at once the vital chain. 

And freed his soul the nearest way. 



BALLADS 47 

XXV 

CHEVY CHACE 

THE HUNTING 

God prosper long our noble king, 

Our lives and safeties all; 
A woeful hunting once there did 

In Chevy-Chace befall; 

To drive the deer vi^ith hound and horn 

Erie Percy took his way; 
The child may rue that is unborn. 

The hunting of that day. 

The stout Erie of Northumberland 

A vow to God did make, 
His pleasure in the Scottish woods 

Three summer's days to take, 

The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chace 

To kill and bear away. 
These tydings to Erie Douglas came. 

In Scotland where he lay ; 

Wlio sent Erie Percy present word, 

He wold prevent his sport. 
The English Erie, not fearing that. 

Did to the woods resort 



48 BALLADS 

With fifteen hundred bow-men bold. 

All chosen men of might, 
Who knew full well in time of neede 

To ayme their shafts aright. 

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, 

To chase the fallow deere : 
On Monday they began to hunt, 

Ere daylight did appeare ; 

And long before high noone they had 
An hundred fat buckes slaine ; 

Then having dined, the drovyers went 
To rouse the deere againe. 

The bow-men mustered on the hills. 

Well able to endure ; 
Their backsides all, with special care 

That day were guarded sure. 

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods. 

The nimble deere to take, 
And with their cryes the hills and dales 

An echo shrill did make. 

Lord Percy to the quarry went. 
To view the slaughtered deere : 

Quoth he, ' Erie Douglas promised 
This day to meet me here, 

But if I thought he wold not come, 

No longer wold I stay. ' 
With that, a brave younge gentleman 

Thus to the Erie did say: 



BALLADS 49 

'Lo, yonder doth Erie Douglas come, 

His men in armour bright; 
P'ull twenty hundred Scottish speares 

All marching in our sight; 

All men of pleasant Tivydale, 

Fast by the river Tweede' : 
*0, cease your sports,' Erie Percy said, 

'And take your bowes with speede; 

And now with me, my countrymen. 

Your courage forth advance, 
For there was never champion yet, 

In Scotland or in France, 

That ever did on horsebacke come. 

But if my hap it were, 
I durst encounter man for man. 

And with him break a speare.' 

THE CHALLENGE 

Erie Douglas on his milke-white steede. 

Most like a baron bold, 
Rode foremost of his company, 

Whose armour shone like gold. 

'Show me,' said he, 'whose men ye be, 

That hunt so boldly here, 
That, without my consent, do chase 

And kill my fallow-deere.' 

The first man that did answer make, 
Was noble Percy he; 



50 BALLADS 

Who sayd, 'We list not to declare, 
Nor shew whose men we be, 

Yet we will spend our dearest blood. 
Thy chief est harts to slay.' 

Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, 
And thus in rage did say : 

'Ere thus I will out-braved be. 

One of us two shall dye : 
I know thee well, an erle thou art; 

Lord Percy, so am I. 

But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, 

And great offence to kill 
Any of these our guiltlesse men, 

For they have done no ill. 

Let thou and I the battell trye. 

And set our men aside.' 
'Accurst be he,' Erie Percy said, 

'By whom this is denied.' 

Then stept a gallant squier forth, 
Witherington was his name, 

Who said, 'I wold not have it told 
To Henry our king for shame. 

That ere my captaine fought on foote, 

And I stood looking on. 
Ye be two erles, ' said Witherington, 

'And I a squier alone: 

lie do the best that do I may. 
While I have power to stand : 



BALLADS 51 

While I have power to wield my sword, 
He fight with heart and hand. ' 

THE BATTLE 

Our English archers bent their bowes, 
Their hearts were good and trew, 

At the first flight of arrowes sent, 
Full fourscore Scots they slew. 

Yet bides Erie Douglas on the bent. 

As Chieftain stout and good. 
As valiant Captain, all unmoved 

The shock he firmly stood. 

His host he parted had in three, 

As leader ware and try'd. 
And soon his spearmen on their foes 

Bare down on every side. 

Throughout the English archery 

They dealt full many a wound; 
But still our valiant Englishmen 

All firmly kept their ground, 

And, throwing strait their bowes away. 
They grasped their swords so bright, 

And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, 
On shields and helmets light. 

They closed full fast on every side. 

No slackness there was found; 
And many a gallant gentleman 

Lay gasping on the ground. 



BALLADS 

Christ ! it was a griefe to see, 
And likewise for to heare, 

The cries of men lying in their gore, 
And scattered here and there ! 

At last these two stout erles did meet, 
Like captaines of great might : 

Like lions wode, they laid on lode, 
And made a cruel fight : 

They fought untill they both did sweat 
With swords of tempered Steele; 

Until the blood like drops of rain 
They trickling downe did feele. 

'Yield thee. Lord Percy,' Douglas said; 

'In faith I will thee bringe, 
Where thou shalt high advanced be 

By James our Scottish king : 

Thy ransome I will freely give, 

And this report of thee, 
Thou art the most courageous knight, 

That ever I did see.' 

'No, Douglas,' quoth Erie Percy then, 
'Thy proffer I do scorne; 

1 will not yield to any Scot, 

That ever yet was borne. ' 

With that, there came an arrow keene 

Out of an English bow, 
Which struck Erie Douglas to the heart, 

A deep and deadly blow : 



BALLADS 53 

Who never spake more words than these, 

'Fight on, my merry men all; 
For why, my life is at an end; 

Lord Percy sees my fall.' 

Then leaving life, Erie Percy tooke 

The dead man by the hand; 
And said, 'Erie Douglas, for thy life 

Wold 1 had lost my land ! 

O Christ ! my very heart doth bleed 

With sorrow for thy sake, 
For sure, a more redoubted knight 

Mischance could never take.' 

A knight amongst the Scots there was. 

Which saw Erie Douglas dye, 
Who straight in wrath did vow revenge 

Upon the Lord Percye. 

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called 

Who, with a speare most bright, 
Well-mounted on a gallant steed, 

Ran fiercely through the fight, 

And past the English archers all, 

Without or dread or feare. 
And through Erie Percy's body then 

He thrust his hateful speare. 

With such a vehement force and might 

He did his body gore. 
The staff ran through the other side 

A large cloth-yard, and more. 



54 BALLADS 

So thus did both these nobles dye, 
Whose courage none could staine ! 

An English archer then perceived 
The noble Erie was slaine: 

He had a bow bent in his hand. 

Made of a trusty tree; 
An arrow of a cloth-yard long 

Up to the head drew he; 

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye 

So right the shaft he set, 
The grey goose-winge that was thereon 

In his heart's bloode was wet. 

This fight did last from breake of day 

Till setting of the sun; 
For when they rung the evening-bell. 

The battle scarce was done. 

THE SLAIN 

With stout Erie Percy, there was slaine 

Sir John of Egerton, 
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, 

Sir James, that bold baron; 

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, 
Both knights of good account, 

Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine. 
Whose prowesse did surmount. 

For Witherington needs must I wayle. 
As one in doleful dumpes ; 



BALLADS 55 

For when his legs were smitten off, 
He fought upon his stumpes. 

And with Erie Douglas, there was slaine 

Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, 
Sir Charles Murray, that from the field 

One foote would never flee; 

Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, 

His sister's sonne was he; 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, 

Yet saved he could not be; 

And the Lord Maxwell in like case 

Did with Erie Douglas dye : 
Of twenty hundred Scottish speares, 

Scarce fifty-five did flye. 

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, 

Went home but fifty-three : 
The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, 

Under the greene woode tree. 

Next day did many widdowes come. 

Their husbands to bewayle; 
They washt their wounds in brinish teares. 

But all wold not prevayle; 

Their bodyes, bathed in purple gore, 

They bore with them away; 
They kist them dead a thousand times. 

Ere they were clad in clay. 



56 BALLADS 



THE TIDINGS 



The newes was brought to Eddenborrow, 
Where Scotland's king did raigne, 

That brave Erie Douglas suddenlye 
Was with an arrow slaine : 

'O heavy newes,' King James did say, 

'Scotland may witnesse be, 
I have not any captaine more 

Of such account as he.' 

Like tydings to King Henry came, 

Within as short a space. 
That Percy of Northumberland 

Was slaine in Chevy-Chace : 

'Now God be with him,' said our king, 

' Sith it will no better be; 
I trust I have, within my realme, 

Five hundred as good as he : 

Yet shall not Scots nor Scotland say. 

But I will vengeance take : 
I'll be revenged on them all. 

For brave Erie Percy's sake.' 

This vow full well the king performed 

After, at Humbledowne; 
In one day, fifty knights were slayne, 

With lords of great renowne, 

And of the rest, of small account. 
Did many thousands dye. 



BALLADS 57 

Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, 
Made by the Erie Percye. 

God save our king, and bless this land 

With plentye, joy, and peace, 
And grant henceforth that foule debate 

'Twixt noblemen may cease 1 

XXVI 

SIR PATRICK SPENS 

The King sits in Dunfermline town, 

Drinking the blude-red wine : 
*0 whaur will I get a skeely skipper 

To sail this new ship o' mine? ' 

O up and spake an eldern knight, 

Sat at the King's right knee: 
'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 

That ever sailed the sea.' 

Our King has written a braid letter 

And sealed it wi' his hand. 
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 

Was walking on the strand. " 

'To Noroway, to Noroway, 

To Noroway o'er the faera; 
The King's daughter to Noroway, 

'Tis thou maun bring her hame.' 

The first word that Sir Patrick read, 
Sae loud, loud lauched he; 



58 BALLADS 

The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 
The tear blinded his ee. 

'O wha is this has done this deed, 

And tauld the King of me, 
To send us out at this time o' year 

To sail upon the sea? 

Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, 

Our ship must sail the faem; 
The King's daughter to Noroway, 

'Tis we must bring her hame.' 

They hoysed their sails on Monday morn 

Wi' a' the speed they may; 
They hae landed in Noroway 

Upon a Wodensday. 

They hadna been a week, a week, 

In Noroway but twae, 
When that the lords o' Noroway 

Began aloud to say : 

*Ye Scottishmen spend a' our King's goud 

And a' our Queenis fee.' 
*Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud, 

Fu' loud I hear ye lie ! 

For I brought as mickle white monie 

As gane my men and me, 
And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud 

Out-o'er the sea wi' me. 

Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a' ! 
Our gude ship sails the morn.' 



BALLADS 59 

'Now, ever alake, my master dear, 
I fear a deadly storm. 

I saw the new moon late yestreen 

Wi' the auld moon in her arm; 
And, if we gang to sea, master, 

I fear we'll come to harm.' 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 

A league but barely three. 
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, 

And gurly grew the sea. 

*0 where will I get a gude sailor 

To tak' my helm in hand, 
Till I gae up to the tall topmast 

To see if I can spy land? ' 

*0 here am I, a sailor gude. 

To tak' the helm in hand. 
Till you gae up to the tall topmast; 

But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.' 

He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step but barely ane, 
When a bolt flew out o' our goodly ship. 

And the salt sea it came in. 

'Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, 

Anither o' the twine, 
And wap them into our ship's side. 

And letna the sea come in.' 

They fetched a web o' the silken claith, 
Anither o' the twine, 



60 BALLADS 

And they wapped them round thatgude ship's side, 
But still the sea cam' in. 

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords 
-. To weet their milk-white hands; 
But lang ere a' the play was ower 
They wat their gowden bands. 

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords 

To weet their cork-heeled shoon; 
But lang ere a' the play was played 

They wat their hats aboon. 

O lang, lang may the ladies sit 

Wi' their fans intill their hand, 
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 

Come sailing to the strand ! 

And lang, lang may the maidens sit 

Wi' their goud kairas in their hair, 
A' waiting for their ain dear loves! 

For them they'll see nae mair. 

Half ower, half ower to Aberdour, 

It's fifty fathoms deep. 
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 

XXVII 

BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY 

The fifteenth day of July, 

With glistering spear and shield, 

A famous fight in Flanders 
Was foughten in the field: 



BALLADS 61 

The most conspicuous officers 

Were English captains three, 
But the bravest man in battel 

Was brave Lord Willoughby. 

The next was Captain Norris, 

A valiant man was he : 
The other, Captain Turner, 

From field would never flee. 
With fifteen hundred fighting men, 

Alas ! there were no more, 
They fought with forty thousand then 

Upon the bloody shore. 

'Stand to it, noble pikeman. 

And look you round about : 
And shoot you right, you bow-men, 

And we will keep them out : 
You musquet and cailiver men, 

Do you prove true to me, 
I'll be the bravest man in fight,' 

Says brave Lord Willoughby. 

And then the bloody enemy 

They fiercely did assail. 
And fought it out most furiously. 

Not doubting to prevail : 
The wounded men on both sides fell 

Most piteous for to see. 
But nothing could the courage quell 

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 



62 BALLADS 

For seven hours to all men's view 

This fight endured sore, 
Until our men so feeble grew 

That they could fight no more; 
And then upon dead horses 

P'uU savourly they eat, 
And drank the puddle water, 

That could no better get. 

When they had fed so freely, 

They kneeled on the ground, 
And praised God devoutly 

For the favour they had found; 
And bearing up their colours. 

The fight they did renew. 
And cutting tow'rds the Spaniard, 

Five thousand more they slew. 

The sharp steel-pointed arrows 

And bullets thick did fly; 
Then did our valiant soldiers 

Charge on most furiously : 
Which made the Spaniards waver, 

They thought it best to flee : 
They feared the stout behaviour 

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 

Then quoth the Spanish general, 
'Come, let us march away, 

I fear we shall be spoiled all 
If that we longer stay : 



BALLADS 63 

For yonder comes Lord Willoughby 

With courage fierce and fell, 
He will not give one inch of ground 

For all the devils in hell.' 

And when the fearful enemy 

Was quickly put to flight, 
Our men pursued courageously 

To rout his forces quite; 
And at last they gave a shout 

Which echoed through the sky: 
'God, and St. George for England! * 

The conquerors did cry. 

This news was brought to England 

With all the speed might be. 
And soon our gracious Queen was told 

Of this same victory. 
'O! this is brave Lord Willoughby, 

My love that ever won : 
Of all the lords of honour 

'Tis he great deeds hath done ! ' 

To the soldiers that were maimed, 

And wounded in the fray. 
The queen allowed a pension 

Of fifteen pence a day. 
And from all costs and charges 

She quit and set them free : 
And this she did all for the sake 

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 



64 BALLADS 

Then courage, noble Englishmen, 

And never be dismayed ! 
If that we be but one to ten, 

We will not be afraid 
To fight with foreign enemies, 

And set our country free. 
And thus I end the bloody bout 

Of brave Lord Willoughby. 



XXVIII 

HUGHIE THE GR^ME 

Good Lord Scroope to the hills is gane. 

Hunting of the fallow deer; 
And he has grippit Hughie the Grreme 

For stealing of the Bishop's mare. 

'Now, good Lord Scroope, this may not be! 

Here hangs a broadsword by my side; 
And if that thou canst conquer me. 

The matter it may soon be tried.' 

'I ne'er was afraid of a traitor thief; 

Although thy name be Hughie the Gramme, 
I'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds. 

If God but grant me life and time.' 

But as they were dealing their blows so free. 
And both so bloody at the time. 

Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall, 
All for to take bold Hughie the Grseme. 



BALLADS 65 

O then they grippit Hughie the Gr?eme, 
And brought him up through Carlisle town: 

The lads and lasses stood on the walls, 

Crying, 'Hughie the Graeme, thou'se ne'er 
gae down ! ' 

'O loose my right hand free,' he says, 

'And gie me my sword o' the metal sae fine, 

He's no in Carlisle town this day 

Daur tell the tale to Hughie the Graeme.' 

Up then and spake the brave Whitefoord, 

As he sat by the Bishop's knee, 
'Twenty white owsen, my gude lord. 

If ye'U grant Hughie the Graeme to me.' 

*0 haud your tongue,' the Bishop says, 
'And wi' your pleading let me be; 

For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 
They suld be hangit a' for me. ' 

Up then and spake the fair Whitefoord, 

As she sat by the Bishop's knee, 
'A peck o' white pennies, my good lord, 

If ye'U grant Hughie the Graeme to me.' 

'O haud your tongue now, lady fair. 

Forsooth, and so it sail na be; 
Were he but the one Graham of the name, 

He suld be hangit high for me.' 

They've ta'en him to the gallows knowe. 

He looked to the gallows tree, 
Yet never colour left his cheek, 

Nor ever did he blink his e'e. 



66 BALLADS 

He looked over his left shoulder 

To try whatever he could see, 
And he was aware of his auld father, 

Tearing his hair most piteouslie. 

*0 haud your tongue, my father dear, 
And see that ye dinna weep for me ! 

For they may ravish me o' my life, 

But they canna banish me fro' Heaven hie. 

And ye may gie my brither John 

My sword that's bent in the middle clear. 

And let him come at twelve o'clock, 
And see me pay the Bishop's mare. 

And ye may gie my brither James 

My sword that's bent in the middle brown, 

And bid him come at four o'clock. 
And see his brither Hugh cut down. 

And ye may tell my kith and kin 
I never did disgrace their blood; 

And when they meet the Bishop's cloak. 
To mak' it shorter by the hood.' 

XXIX 

KINMONT WILLIE 

THE CAPTURE 

O HAVE ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde? 

O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope? 
How they hae ta'en bold Kinmont Willie, 

On Haribee to hang him up? 



BALLADS 67 

Had Willie had but twenty men, 

But twenty men as stout as he, 
Fause Siikelde had never the Kinmont ta'en, 

Wi' eight score in his cumpanie. 

They band his legs beneath the steed, 
They tied his hands behind his back; 

They guarded him fivesome on each side, 
And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack. 

They led him thro' the Liddel-rack, 

And also thro' the Carlisle sands; 
They brought him on to Carlisle castle 

To be at my Lord Scroope's commands. 

*My hands are tied, but my tongue is free, 

And wha will dare this deed avow? 
Or answer by the Border law? 

Or answer to the bold Buccleuch? ' 

'Now hand thy tongue, thou rank reiver! 

There's never a Scot shall set thee free: 
Before ye cross my castle yett, 

I trow ye shall take farewell o' me.' 

'Fear na ye that, my lord,' quo' Willie: 

'By the faith o' my body. Lord Scroope, ' he said, 

'I never yet lodged in a hostelrie 

But I paid my lawing before I gaed.' 

THE keeper's wrath 

Now word is gane to the bold Keeper, 
In Branksome Ha' where that he lay. 



G8 BALLADS 

That Lord Scroope has ta'en the Kinmont Willie, 
Between the hours of night and day. 

He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, 
., He garred the red wine spring on hie : 
* Now a curse upon my head,' he said, 
'But avenged of Lord Scroope I'll be ! 

O is my basnet a widow's curch? 

Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree? 
Or my arm a lady's lily hand, 

That an English lord should lightly me ! 

And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, 

Against the truce of Border tide? 
And forgotten that the bold Buccleuch 

Is keeper here on the Scottish side? 

And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont AVillie, 

Withouten either dread or fear? 
And forgotten that the bold Buccleuch 

Can back a steed or shake a spear? 

were there war between the lands, 
As well I wot that there is none, 

1 would slight Carlisle castle high. 
Though it were builded of marble stone. 

I would set that castle in a lowe, 
And slocken it with English blood! 

There's never a man in Cumberland 
Should ken where Carlisle castle stood. 

But since nae war's between the lands. 
And there is peace, and peace should be, 



BALLADS 69 

I'll neither harm English lad or lass, 
And yet the Kinmont freed shall be ! ' 

THE MARCH 

He has called him forty Marchmen bold, 

I trow they were of his ain name, 
Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, called 

The Laird of Stobs, I mean the same. 

He has called him forty Marchmen bold, 
Were kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch; 

With spur on heel, and splent on spauld. 
And gluves of green, and feathers blue. 

There were five and five before them a', 
Wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright: 

And five and five cam' wi' Buccleuch, 
Like warden's men, arrayed for fight. 

And five and five like a mason gang 
That carried the ladders lang and hie; 

And five and five like broken men; 

And so they reached the Woodhouselee. 

And as we crossed the 'Bateable Land, 
When to the English side we held. 

The first o' men that we met wi', 
Whae suld it be but fause Sakelde? 

'Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen? ' 
Quo' fause Sakelde; 'come tell to me! ' 

'We go to hunt an English stag 

Has trespassed on the Scots countrie.' 



70 BALLADS 

'Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men? ' 
Quo' fause Sakelde; 'coine tell me true! ' 

'We go to catch a rank reiver 

Has broken faith \vi' the bold Buccleuch.' 

'Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, 

Wi' a' your ladders lang and hie? ' 
'We gang to herry a corbie's nest 

That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.' 

'Where be ye gaun, ye broken men? ' 
Quo' fause Sakelde; 'come tell to me! ' 

Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band, 
And the never a word of lear had he. 

'Why trespass ye on the English side? 

Row-footed outlaws, standi' quo' he; 
The never a word had Dickie to say, 

Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie. 

Then on we held for Carlisle toun, 

And at Staneshaw-Bank the Eden we crossed; 

The water was great and meikle of spait, 
But the never a horse nor man we lost. 

And when we reached the Staneshaw-Bank, 

The wind was rising loud and hie; 
And there the Laird garred leave our steeds, 

For fear that they should stamp and neigh. 

And when we left the Staneshaw-Bank, 

The wind began full loud to blaw; 
But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, 

When we came beneath the castle wa'. 



BALLADS 71 

We crept on knees, and held our breath, 
Till we placed the ladders against the wa' ; 

And sae ready was Buccleuch hiinsell 
To mount the first before us a'. 

He has ta'en the watchman by the throat, 
He flung him down upon the lead: 

'Had there not been peace between our lands, 
Upon the other side thou'dst gaed ! 

Now sound out, trumpets! ' quo' Buccleuch; 

'Let's waken Lord Scroope right merrilie! ' 
Then loud the warden's trumpet blew 

O wha dare meddle wP me ? 



THE RESCUE 

Then speedilie to wark we gaed, 
And raised the slogan ane and a', 

And cut a hole through a sheet of lead. 
And so we wan to the castle ha'. 

They thought King James and a' his men 
Had won the house wi' bow and spear; 

It was but twenty Scots and ten 
That put a thousand in sic a stear ! 

Wi' coulters and wi' forehammers 
We garred the bars bang merrilie. 

Until we came to the inner prison, 
Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie. 

And when we cam' to the lower prison, 
Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie : 



72 BALLADS 

*0 sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie, 
Upon the morn that thou's to die?' 

*0 I sleep saft, and I wake aft; 
^ It's lang since sleeping was fleyed frae me ! 
Gie my service back to my wife and bairns, 
And a' gude fellows that spier for me.' 

Then Red Rowan has hente him up, 

The starkest man in Teviotdale : 
'Abide, abide now, Red Rowan, 

Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell. 

Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope ! 

My gude Lord Scroope, farewell! ' he cried; 
'I'll pay you for my lodging maill. 

When first we meet on the Border side,' 

Then shoulder high with shout and cry 
We bore him down the ladder lang; 

At every stride Red Rowan made, 

I wot the Kinmont's aims played clang. 

'O mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie, 
'I have ridden horse baith wild and wood; 

But a rougher beast than Red Rowan 
I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode. 

And mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie, 
'I've pricked a horse out oure the furs; 

But since the day I backed a steed, 
I never wore sic cumbrous spurs ! ' 

We scarce had won the Staneshaw-Bank 
When a' the Carlisle bells were rung. 



BALLADS 73 

And a thousand men on horse and foot 
Cam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along. 

Buccleuch has turned to Eden Water, 
Even where it flowed frae bank to brim, 

And he has plunged in wi' a' his band, 
And safely swam them through the stream. 

He turned him on the other side, 

And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he : 

'If ye like na my visit in merrie England, 
In fair Scotland come visit me ! ' 

All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope, 

He stood as still as rock of stane; 
He scarcely dared to trew his eyes, 

When through the water they had gane. 

'He is either himsell a devil frae hell. 
Or else his mother a witch maun be; 

I wadna have ridden that wan water 
For a' the gowd in Christentie.' 

XXX 

THE HONOUR OF BRISTOL 

Attend you, and give ear awhile, 

And you shall understand 
Of a battle fought upon the seas 

By a ship of brave command. 
The fight it was so glorious 

Men's hearts it did ful-fill. 
And it made them cry, 'To sea, to sea, 

With the Angel Gabriel ! ' 



74 BALLADS 

This lusty ship of Bristol 

Sailed out adventurously 
Against the foes of England, 

Her strength with them to try: 
Well victualled, rigged, and manned she was, 

With good provision still, 
Which made men cry, 'To sea, to sea. 

With the Angel Gabriel ! ' 

The Captain, famous Netherway 

(That was his noble name) : 
The Master — he was called John Mines — 

A mariner of fame : 
The Gunner, Thomas Watson, 

A man of perfect skill: 
With many another valiant heart 

In the Angel Gabriel. 

They waving up and down the seas 

Upon the ocean main, 
*It is not long ago,' quoth they, 

'That England fought with Spain: 
O would the Spaniard we might meet 

Our stomachs to fulfil! 
We would play him fair a noble bout 

With our Angel Gabriel ! ' 

They had no sooner spoken 

But straight appeared in sight 
Three lusty Spanish vessels 

Of warlike trim and might; 



BALLADS 75 

With bloody resolution 

They thought our men to spill, 
And they vowed that they would make a prize 

Of our Angel Gabriel. 

Our gallant ship had in her 

Full forty fighting men : 
With twenty piece of ordnance 

We played about them then, 
With powder, shot, and bullets 

Right well we worked our will. 
And hot and bloody grew the fight 

With our Angel Gabriel. 

Our Captain to our Master said, 

'Take courage, Master bold ! ' 
Our Master to the seamen said, 

'Stand fast, my hearts of gold! ' 
Our Gunner unto all the rest, 

'Brave hearts, be valiant still! 
Fight on, fight on in the defence 

Of our Angel Gabriel ! ' 

We gave them such a broadside, 

It smote their mast asunder. 
And tore the bowsprit off their ship, 

Which made the Spaniards wonder. 
And caused them in fear to cry, 

With voices loud and shrill, 
'Help, help, or sunken we shall be 

By the Angel Gabriel ! ' 



76 BALLADS 

So desperately they boarded us 

For all our valiant shot, 
Threescore of their best fighting men 

Upon our decks were got; 
And lo ! at their first entrances 

Full thirty did we kill, 
And thus we cleared with speed the deck 

Of our Angel Gabriel. 

With that their three ships boarded us 

Again with might and main, 
But still our noble Englishmen 

Cried out, 'A fig for Spain! ' 
Though seven times they boarded us 

At last we showed our skill, 
And made them feel what men we were 

On the Angel Gabriel. 

Seven hours this fight continued: 

So many men lay dead, 
With Spanish blood for fathoms round 

The sea was coloured red. 
Five hundred of their fighting men 

We there outright did kill. 
And many more were hurt and maimed 

By our Angel Gabriel. 

Then, seeing of these bloody spoils, 

The rest made haste away : 
For why, they said, it was no boot 

The longer there to stay. 



I 



BALLADS 77 

Then they fled into Cales, 

Where lie they must and will 
For fear lest they should meet again 

With our Angel Gabriel. 

We had within our English ship 

But only three men slain, 
And five men hurt, the which I hope 

Will soon be well again. 
At Bristol we were landed, 

And let us praise God still, 
That thus hath blest our lusty hearts 

And our Angel Gabriel. 



HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL 

I WISH I were where Helen lies, 
Night and day on me she cries; 
O that I were where Helen lies, 
On fair Kirkconnell lea! 

Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 
And curst the hand that fired the shot. 
When in my arms burd Helen dropt. 
And died to succour me ! 

O thinkna ye my heart was sair 
When my love dropt down, and spak' nae mair? 
There did she swoon wi' meikle care, 
On fair Kirkconnell lea. 



BALLADS 

As I went down the water side, 
None but my foe to be my guide, 
None but my foe to be my guide 
On fair Kirkconnell lea; 

I lighted down my sword to draw, 
I hacked him in pieces sma', 
I hacked him in pieces sma' 
For her sake that died for me. 

O Helen fair beyond compare ! 
I'll mak' a garland o' thy hair, 
Shall bind my heart for evermair. 
Until the day I dee ! 

O that I were where Helen lies ! 
Night and day on me she cries; 
Out of my bed she bids me rise. 
Says, 'Haste, and come to me!' 

Helen fair! O Helen chaste! 
If I were with thee I were blest. 
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest, 

On fair Kirkconnell lea. 

1 wish my grave were growing green, 
A winding-sheet drawn ower my e'en, 
And I in Helen's arms lying 

On fair Kirkconnell lea. 

I wish I were where Helen lies ! 
Night and day on me she cries, 
And I am weary of the skies 
For her sake that died for me. 



BALLADS 79 

XXXII 

THE TWA CORBIES 

As I was walking all alane, 

I heard twa corbies making a mane : 

The tane unto the tither say, 

'Where sail we gang and dine the day?' 

*In behint yon auld fail dyke 

I wot there lies a new-slain knight; 

And naebody kens that he lies there 

But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. 

His hound is to the hunting gane. 
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, 
His lady's ta'en another mate, 
Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet. 

Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, 
And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en: 
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair 
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. 

Mony a one for him makes mane. 
But nane sail ken where he is gane : 
O'er his white banes, v/hen they are bare, 
The wind sail blaw for evermair.' 



80 GRAY 



THE BARD 

vRuiN seize thee, ruthless King! 

Confusion on thy banners wait ! 
Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing 

They mock the air with idle state. 
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail 
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears. 
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears! ' 
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride 

Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay. 
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 

He wound with toilsome march his long array: 
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; 
*To arms! ' cried Mortimer, and couched his quiver- 
ing lance. 

On a rock, whose haughty brow 
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 

Robed in the sable garb of woe 
With haggard eyes the Poet stood 
(Loose his beard and hoary hair 
Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air), 
And with a master's hand and prophet's fire 
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre : 
'Hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave 

Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 
O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave. 

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; 



GRAY 81 

Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 

To high-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's lay. 



'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue 

I'hat hushed the stormy main : 
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: 

Mountains, ye mourn in vain 

Modred, whose magic song 
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. 

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie 
Smeared with gore and ghastly pale : 
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; 

The famished eagle screams, and passes by. 
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, 

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, 

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries! — 
No more I weep. They do not sleep. 

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 
I see them sit; they linger yet, 

Avengers of their native land : 
With me in dreadful harmony they join, 
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. 

'Weave the warp and weave the woof 
The winding-sheet of Edward's race: 

Give ample room and verge enough 
The characters of hell to trace. 

Mark the year and mark the night 

When Severn shall re-echo with affright 



82 GRAY 

The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roof tliat ring| 
Shrieks of an agonising king ! 

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs. 
That tear' St the bowels of thy mangled mate, 

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs 
The scourge of Heaven ! What terrors round him wait ! 
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined. 
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. 

'Mighty victor, mighty lord, 

Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 
No pitying heart, no eye, afford 

A tear to grace his obsequies. 
Is the sable warrior fled? 
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 
The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born? 
Gone to salute the rising morn. 
Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: 

Youtii on the prow and Pleasure at the helm : 
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway. 
That hushed in grim repose expects his evening 
prey. 

'Fill high the sparkling bowl, 
The rich repast prepare; 

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: 
Close by the regal chair 

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. 



GRAY 83 

Heard ye the din of battle bray, 

Lance to lance and horse to horse? 

Long years of havoc urge their destined course, 
And through the kindred squadrons mow their 
way. 

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, 
With many a foul and midnight murder fed. 

Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, 
And spare the meek usurper's holy head! 
Above, below, the rose of snow, 

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: 
The bristled boar in infant-gore 

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, 
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his 
doom. 

'Edward, lo! to sudden fate 

(Weave we the woof; the thread is spun;) 
Half of thy heart we consecrate. 

(The web is wove; the work is done.) 
Stay, O stay ! nor thus forlorn 
Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: 
In yon bright track that fires the western skies 
They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
But O ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 

Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? 
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, 

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail : 
All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's issue, hail ! 



84 GRAY 

'Girt with many a baron bold 
Sublime their starry fronts they rear; 

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 
In the midst a form divine ! 
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line : 
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face 
Attempered sweet to virgin grace. 
What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 

What strains of vocal transport round her play? 
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; 

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
Bright Rapture calls and, soaring as she sings, 
Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured 
wings. 

'The verse adorn again 

Fierce War and faithful Love 
And Truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. 

In buskined measures move 
Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, 
With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 
A voice as of the cherub-choir 

Gales from blooming Eden bear. 

And distant warblings lessen on my ear 
That lost in long futurity expire. 
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, 

Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? 
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood 

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
Enough for me : with joy I see 



COWl'ER 85 

The different doom our fates assign: 
Be thine Despair and sceptred Care, 

To triumph and to die are mine.' 
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height 
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. 

Gray. 

XXXIV 

THE ROYAL GEORGE 

Toll for the Brave ! 
The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave 
Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight hundred of the brave, 
Whose courage well was tried, 
Had made the vessel heel 
And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds 
And she was overset j 
Down went the Royal George 
With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 
Brave Kempenfelt is gone; 
His last sea-fight is fought. 
His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle; 
No tempest gave the shock; 
She sprang no fatal leak, 
She ran upon no rock. 



86 COWPER 

His sword was in its sheath, 
His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 
- ^ With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up 
Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 
The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again 

Full charged with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main : 

But Kempenfelt is gone, 
His victories are o'er; 
And he and his eight hundred 
Shall plough the wave no more. 



XXXV 

BOADICEA 

When the British warrior queen, 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought with an indignant mien 
Counsel of her country's gods, 

Sage beneath the spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief. 

Every burning word he spoke 
Full of rage, and full of grief : 



COWPER 87 

'Princess! if our aged eyes 

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 

'Tis because resentment ties 
All the terrors of our tongues. 

Rome shall perish, — write that word 

In the blood that she has spilt; 
Perish hopeless and abhorred. 

Deep in ruin as in guilt. 

Rome, for empire far renowned. 

Tramples on a thousand states; 
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, 

Plark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! 

Other Romans shall arise 

Heedless of a soldier's name; 
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, 

Harmony the path to fame. 

Then the progeny that springs 

From the forests of our land, 
Armed with thunder, clad with wings, 

Shall a wider world command. 

Regions Caesar never knew 

Thy posterity shall sway; 
Where his eagles never flew, 

None invincible as they.' 

Such the bard's prophetic words, 

Pregnant with celestial fire. 
Bending as he swept the chords 

Of his sweet but awful lyre. 



88 GRAHAM OF GARTMORE 

She with all a monarch's pride 
Felt them in her bosom glow, 

Rushed to battle, fought, and died, 
Dying, hurled them at the foe : 

'Ruffians, pitiless as proud, 

Heaven awards the vengeance due; 

Empire is on us bestowed, 
Shame and ruin wait for you.' 

Cowper. 

XXXVI 

TO HIS LADY 

If doughty deeds my lady please 

Right soon I'll mount my steed; 
And strong his arm, and fast his seat 

That bears frae me the meed. 
I'll wear thy colours in my cap 

Thy picture at my heart; 
And he that bends not to thine eye 
Shall rue it to his smart! 

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; 

O tell me how to woo thee ! 
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, 
Tho' ne'er another trow me. 

If gay attire delight thine eye 

I'll dight me in array; 
I'll tend thy chamber door all night. 

And squire thee all the day. 



DIBDIN 89 

If sweetest sounds can win thine ear 

These sounds I'll strive to catch; 
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, 

That voice that nane can match. 

But if fond love thy heart can gain, 

I never broke a vow; 
Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, 

I never loved but you. 
For you alone I ride the ring, 

For you I wear the blue; 
For you alone I strive to sing, 
O tell me how to woo ! 

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; 

O tell me how to woo thee ! 
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, 
Tho' ne'er another trow me. 

Graham of Gar (more. 



CONSTANCY 

Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear 

The mainmast by the board; 
My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear. 

And love well stored, 
Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear. 

The roaring winds, the raging sea. 
In hopes on shore to be once more 

Safe moored with thee ! 



90 DIBDIN 

Aloft while mountains high we go, 

The whistling winds that scud along, 
And surges roaring from below, 

Shall my signal be to think on thee, 
And this shall be my song: 
Blow high, blow low — 

And on that night, when all the crew, 

The memory of their former lives 
O'er flowing cans of flip renew, 

And drink their sweethearts and their wives, 
I'll heave a sigh and think on thee, 
And, as the ship rolls through the sea, 
The burden of my song shall be : 
Blow high, blow low — 

XXXVIII 

THE PERFECT SAILOR 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 

The darling of our crew; 
No more he'll hear the tempest howling, 

For death has broached him to. 
His form was of the manliest beauty, 

His heart was kind and soft. 
Faithful, below, he did his duty, 

But now he's gone aloft. 

Tom never from his word departed, 

His virtues were so rare. 
His friends w'ere many and true-hearted, 

His Poll was kind and fair; 



CURRAN 91 

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, 

Ah, many's the time and oft! 
But mirth is turned to melancholy, 

For Tom is gone aloft. 

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, 

When He, who all commands, 
Shall give, to call life's crew together. 

The word to pipe all hands. 
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, 

In vain Tom's life has doffed, 
For, though his body's under hatches. 

His soul has gone aloft. 

Dibdin, 



XXXIX 

THE DESERTER 

If sadly thinking. 
With spirits sinking. 
Could more than drinking 

My cares compose, 
A cure for sorrow 
From sighs I'd borrow, 
And hope to-morrow 

Would end my woes. 
But as in wailing 
There's nought availing. 
And Death unfailing 

Will strike the blow, 



92 PRINCE HOARE 

Then for that reason, 
And for a season, 
Let us be merry 
Before we go. 



V 



To joy a stranger, 
A way-worn ranger. 
In every danger 

My course I've run; 
Now hope all ending, 
And Death befriending. 
His last aid lending, 

My cares are done : 
No more a rover, 
Or hapless lover, 
My griefs are over, 

My glass runs low; 

Then for that reason. 

And for a season, 

Let us be merry 

Before we go ! 

Curran. 

XL 

THE ARETHUSA 

Come, all ye jolly sailors bold, 

Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould, 

While English glory I unfold, 

Huzza for the Arethusa ! 
She is a frigate tight and brave, 
As ever stemmed the dashing wave; 



PRINCE HOARE 93 

Her men are staunch 

To their favorite launch, 
And when the foe sKall meet our fire, 
Sooner than strike, we'll all expire 

On board of the Arethusa. 



'Twas with the spring fleet she went out 
The English Channel to cruise about, 
When four French sail, in show so stout 

Bore down on the Arethusa. 
The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie, 
The Arethusa seemed to fly, 

Not a sheet, or a tack, 

Or a brace, did she slack ; 
Though the Frenchman laughed and thought it 

stuff, 
But they knew not the handful of men, how tough. 

On board of the Arethusa. 

On deck five hundred men did dance, 
The stoutest they could find in France; 
We with two hundred did advance 

On board of the Arethusa. 
Our captain hailed the Frenchman, 'Ho! ' 
The Frenchman then cried out 'Hallo ! ' 

'Bear down, d'ye see. 

To our Admiral's lee ! ' 
*No, no,' says the Frenchman, 'that can't be! ' 
'Then I must lug you along with me, ' 

Says the saucy Arethusa. 



94 BLAKE 

The fight was off the Frenchman's land, 
We forced them back upon their strand, 
For we fought till not a stick could stand 

Of the gallant Arethusa. 
And now we've driven the foe ashore 
Never to fight with Britons more. 

Let each fill his glass 

To his fav'rite lass; 
A health to our captain and officers true. 
And all that belong to the jovial crew 

On board of the Arethusa. 

Prince Hoare. 



XLI 

THE BEAUTY OF TERROR 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
On what wings dare he aspire? 
What the hand dare seize the fire? 

And what shoulder, and what art. 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand? and what dread feet? 



BURNS 95 

What the hammer? what the chain? 
In what furnace was thy brain ? 
What the anvil? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threAv down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile His work to see? 
Did He who made the lamb make thee? 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 

Blake. 

XLII 

DEFIANCE 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The v/retch's destinie: 
M'Pherson's time will not be long 

On yonder gailows tree. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he; 
He played a spring and danced it round, 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath? — 

On monie a bloody plain 
I've dared his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 



96 BURNS 

Untie these bands from off my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ! 
And there's no a man in all Scotland, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 

I've lived a life of sturt and strife; 

I die by treacherie : 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he; 
He played a spring and danced it round. 

Below the gallows tree. 



XLIII 

THE GOAL OF LIFE 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
And never brought to min' ? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o' lang syne? 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 



J 



BURNS 97 

And surely ye' 11 be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine; 
And we'll talc a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu'd the go wans fine; 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

We twa hae paidled i' the burn 

From mornin' sun till dine; 
But seas between us braid hae roared 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere. 

And gie's a hand o' thine; 
And we'll talc a right guid-willie waught 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll talc a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 



XLIV 

BEFORE PARTING 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
An' fill it in a silver tassie; 

That I may drink before I go 
A service to my bonnie lassie. 



98 BURNS 

The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, 
Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, 

The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 
And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready, 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody; 
But it's no the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad mak me langer v/ish to tarry. 
Nor shout o' war that's heard afar. 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



XLV 

DEVOTION 

O Mary, at thy window be. 

It is the wished, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That mak the miser's treasure poor. 

How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 
A weary slave frae sun to sun, 

Could I the rich reward secure. 
The lovely Mary Morison ! 

Yestreen, v/hen to the trembling string 
The dance gaed through the lighted ha', 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard or saw: 



BURNS 99 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the toun, 

I sighed, and said amang them a', 
*Ye are na Mary Morison.' 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 

If love for love thou wilt na gie, 
At least be pity to me shown ! 

A thought ungentle canna be 
The thought o' Mary Morison. 



XLVI 

TRUE UNTIL DEATH 

It was a' for our rightfu' King, 
We left fair Scotland's strand; 

It was a' for our rightfu' King 
We e'er saw Irish land. 
My dear. 
We e'er saw Irish land. 

Now a' is done that men can do. 
And a' is done in vain; 

My love and native land farewell, 
For I maun cross the main. 

My dear. 
For I maun cross the main. 



100 WORDSWORTH 

He turned him right and round about 

Upon the Irish shore; 
And gae his bridle-reins a shake, 

With adieu for evermore, 
My dear. 

Adieu for evermore. 

The sodger from the wars returns. 

The sailor frae the main; 
But I hae parted frae my love. 

Never to meet again, 
My dear. 

Never to meet again. 

When day is gane, and night is come. 
And a' folk bound to sleep; 

I think on him that's far awa. 

The lee-lang night, and weep. 

My dear, 

The lee-lang night, and weep. 

Burns. 

XLVII 

VENICE 

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 
And was the safeguard of the West : the worth 
Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 
She was a maiden City, bright and free; 
No guile seduced, no force could violate; 
And, when she took unto herself a Mate, 



WORDSWORTH 101 

She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 

And what if she had seen those glories fade, 

Those titles vanish, and that strength decay; 

Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 

When her long life hath reached its final day: 

Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade 

Of that which once was great is passed away. 

XLVIII 

DESTINY 

It is not to be thought of that the Flood 

Of British freedom, which, to the open sea 

Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity 

Hath flowed, 'with pomp of waters, unwithstood, ' 

Roused though it be full often to a mood 

Which spurns the check of salutary bands. 

That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands 

Should perish; and to evil and to good 

Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung 

Armoury of the invincible Knights of old : 

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 

That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold 

Which Milton held. In everything we are sprung 

Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 

XLIX 

THE MOTHERLAND 

When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 



102 WORDSWORTH 

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 

The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 

I had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed ? 

But when I think of thee, and what thou art, 

Verily, in the bottom of my heart. 

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 

But dearly must we prize thee; we who find 

In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; 

And I by my affection was beguiled. 

What wonder if a Poet nov/ and then, 

Among tlie many movements of his mind, 

Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 



L 

IDEAL 

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: 

England hath need of thee : she is a fen 

Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen. 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 

Oh ! raise us up, return to us again; 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound v/as like the sea; 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 

So didst thou travel on life's common way. 

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 

The lowliest duties on itself did lay. 



WORDSWORTH 103 

LI 
TO DUTY 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 
O Duty ! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and reprove; 
Thou, who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe; 
From vain temptations dost set free; 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them; who, in love and truth, 
Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth : 
Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot; 
Who do thy work, and knov/ it not : 
May joy be theirs while life shall last! 
And Thou, if they should totter, teach them to 
stand fast 1 

Serene will be our days and bright. 
And happy will our nature be. 
When love is an unerring light, 
And joy its own security. 
And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
Live in the spirit of this creed; 
Yet find that other strength, according to their need. 



104 WORDSWORTH 

I, loving freedom, and untried; 
No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide, 
Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
The task, in smoother walks to stray; 
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul 
Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
I supplicate for thy control; 
But in the quietness of thought: 
Me this unchartered freedom tires; 
I feel the weight of chance-desires: 
My hopes no more must change their name, 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face : 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
And fragrance in thy footing treads; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; 
And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are 
fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
I call thee : I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
O let my weakness have an end ! 



WORDSWORTH 105 

Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice; 
The confidence of reason give; 
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! 



Ln 

TWO VICTORIES 

I SAID, when evil men are strong. 

No life is good, no pleasure long, 

A weak and cowardly untruth ! 

Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 

And thankful through a weary time 

That brought him up to manhood's prime. 

Again he wanders forth at will. 

And tends a flock from hill to hill : 

His garb is humble; ne'er was seen 

Such garb with such a noble mien; 

Among the shepherd grooms no mate 

Hath he, a Child of strength and state ! 

Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, 

Nor yet for higher sympathy. 

To his side the falloAv-deer 

Came, and rested without fear; 

The eagle, lord of land and sea, 

Stooped down to pay him fealty; 

And both the undying fish that swim 

Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on him; 

The pair were servants of his eye 

In their immortality; 



106 WORDSWORTH 

And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, 

Moved to and fro, for his delight. 

He knew the rocks which Angels haunt 

Upon the mountains visitant; 

He hath kenned them taking wing : 

And into caves where Faeries sing 

He hath entered; and been told 

By Voices how men lived of old. 

Among the heavens his eye can see 

The face of thing that is to be; 

And, if that men report him right, 

His tongue could whisper words of might. 

Now another day is come. 

Fitter hope, and nobler doom; 

He hath thrown aside his crook, 

And hath buried deep his book; 

Armour rusting in his halls 

On the blood of Clifford calls : 

'Quell the Scot! ' exclaims the Lance; 

'Bear me to the heart of France,' 

Is the longing of the Shield; 

Tell thy name, thou trembling field; 

Field of death, where'er thou be, 

Groan thou with our victory ! 

Happy day, and mighty hour. 

When our Shepherd in his power. 

Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword. 

To his ancestors restored 

Like a reappearing Star, 

Like a glory from afar. 

First shall head the flock of war ! 



SCOTT 107 

LIII 

IN MEMORIAM 
nelson: PITT: fox 

To mute and to material things 
New life revolving summer brings; 
The genial call dead Nature hears, 
And in her glory reappears. 
But O my Country's wintry state 
What second spring shall renovate? 
What powerful call shall bid arise 
The buried warlike and the wise; 
The mind that thought for Britain's weal, 
The hand that grasped the victor steel ? 
The vernal sun new life bestows 
Even on the meanest flov/er that blows; 
But vainly, vainly may he shine, 
Where glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine; 
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom, 
That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallowed tomb ! 

Deep graved m every British heart, 
O never let those names depart ! 
Say to your sons, — Lo, here his grave, 
Who victor died on Gadite wave; 
To him, as to the burning levin, 
Short, bright, resistless course was given. 
Where'er his country's foes were found 
Was heard the fated thunder's sound, 
Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, 
Rolled, blazed, destroyed, — and was no more. 



108 SCOTT 

Nor mourn ye less his perished worth, 
Who bade the conqueror go forth, 
And launched that thunderbolt of war 
On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar; 
Who, born to guide such high emprise, 
For Britain's weal was early wise; 
Alas ! to whom the Almighty gave, 
For Britain's sins, an early grave! 
His worth, who in his mightiest hour 
A bauble held the pride of power, 
Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf, 
And served his Albion for herself; 
Who, when the frantic crowd amain 
Strained at subjection's bursting rein, 
O'er their wild mood full conquest gained, 
The pride he would not crush restrained, 
Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause, 
And brought the freeman's arm to aid the free 
man's laws. 



Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of powerj 
A watchman on the lonely tower. 
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land. 
When fraud or danger were at hand; 
By thee, as by the beacon-light, 
Our pilots had kept course aright; 
As some proud column, though alone. 
Thy strength had propped the tottering throne 
Now is the stately column broke, 
The beacon-light is quenched in smoke. 



SCOTT 109 

The trumpet's silver sound is still. 
The warder silent on the hill ! 

O think, how to his latest day, 
When death, just hovering, claimed his prey. 
With Palinure's unaltered mood 
Firm at his dangerous post he stood; 
Each call for needful rest repelled, 
With dying hand the rudder held. 
Till in his fall with fateful sway. 
The steerage of the realm gave way ! 
Then, while on Britain's thousand plains 
One unpolluted church remains, 
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around 
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, 
But still, upon the hallowed day, 
Convoke the swains to praise and pray; 
While faith and civil peace are dear, 
Grace this cold marble with a tear, — 
He, who preserved them, Pitt, lies here ! 

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh. 
Because his rival slumbers nigh; 
Nor be thy reqiiiescat dumb. 
Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. 
For talents mourn, untim.ely lost. 
When best employed, and wanted most; 
Mourn genius high, and lore profound. 
And wit that loved to play, not wound; 
And all the reasoning powers divine. 
To penetrate, resolve, combine; 



110 SCOTT 

And feelings keen, and fancy's glow, — 
They sleep with him who sleeps below : 
And, if thou mourn' st they could not save 
From error him who owns this grave. 
Be every harsher thought suppressed. 
And sacred be the last long rest. 
Here, where the end of earthly things 
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; 
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, 
Of those v.'ho fought, and spoke, and sung; 
Here, where the fretted aisles prolong 
The distant notes of holy song. 
As if some angel spoke agen, 
'All peace on earth, good-will to men'; 
If ever from an English heart, 
O, here let prejudice depart. 
And, partial feeling cast aside, 
Record, that Fox a Briton died ! 
When Europe crouched to France's yoke, 
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, 
And the firm Russian's purpose brave 
Was bartered by a timorous slave. 
Even then dishonour's peace he spurned, 
The sullied olive-branch returned. 
Stood for his country's glory fast. 
And nailed her colours to the mast! 
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave 
A portion in this honoured grave. 
And ne'er held marble in its trust 
Of two such wondrous men the dust. 



SCOTT 111 

With more than mortal powers endowed, 
How high they soared above the crowd ! 
Theirs was no common party race, 
Jostling by dark intrigue for place; 
Like fabled Gods, their mighty war 
Shook realms and nations in its jar; 
Beneath each banner proud to stand, 
Looked up the noblest of the land, 
Till through the British world were known 
The names of Put and Fox alone. 
Spells of such force no wizard grave 
E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave, 
Though his could drain the ocean dry, 
And force the planets from the sky. 
These spells are spent, and, spent with these 
The wine of life is on the lees. 
Genius, and taste, and talent gone, 
For ever tombed beneath the stone. 
Where — taming thought to human pride ! — 
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 
'Twill trickle to his rival's bier; 
O'er PiTi's the mournful requiem sound, 
And Fox's shall the notes rebound. 
The solemn echo seems to cry, — 
'Here let their discord with them die. 
Speak not for those a separate doom 
Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb; 
But search the land of living men. 
Where wilt thou find their like agen? ' 



112 SCOTT 

LIV 

LOCHINVAR 

•*. 

O, VOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west, 
Through all the wide Border his steed was the bestj 
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none, 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love and so dauntless in war. 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, 

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; 

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late; 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war. 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 

Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and 

all: 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) 
*0 come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ? ' 

*I long wooed 3'our daughter, my suit you denied j 
Love swells like the Sohvay, but ebbs like its tide; 
And now am I come with this lost love of mine 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely b\- far 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.' 



SCOTT 113 

The bride kissed the goblet : the knight took it up, 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to 

sigh, 
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, 
'Now tread we a measure ! ' said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face. 
That never a hall such a galliard did grace; 
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume. 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 

plume ; 
And the bride-maidens whispered, ' 'Twere better by 

far, 
To have matched our fair cousin with young Loch- 
invar. ' 

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear. 
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger 

stood near; 
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 
'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and 

scaur; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young 

Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Neth- 

erby clan; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and 
they ran: 



114 SCOTT 

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
So daring in love and so dauntless in war, 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 

LV 

FLODDEN 

THE MARCH 

Next morn the Baron climbed the tower. 
To view afar the Scottish power 

Encamped on Flodden edge : 
The white pavilions made a show, 
Like remnants of the winter snow, 

Along the dusky ridge. 
Long Marmion looked : at length his eye 
Unusual movement might descry 

Amid the shifting lines: 
The Scottish host drawn out appears, 
For flashing on the hedge of spears 

The eastern sunbeam shines. 
Their front now deepening, now extending; 
Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending. 
Now drawing back, and now descending. 
The skilful Marmion well could know, 
They watched the motions of some foe 
Who traversed on the plain below. 

Even so it was. From Flodden ridge 
The Scots beheld the English host 
Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post, 



SCOTT 115 

And heedful watched them as they crossed 
The Till by Twisel bridge. 

High sight it is and haughty, while 

They dive into the deep defile; 

Beneath the caverned cliff they fall, 

Beneath the castle's airy wall. 
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree, 

Troop after troop are disappearing; 

Troop after troop their banners rearing 
Upon the eastern bank you see. 
Still pouring down the rocky den, 

Where flows the sullen Till, 
And rising from the dim-wood glen, 
Standards on standards, men on men, 

In slow succession still, 
And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, 
And pressing on in ceaseless march, 

To gain the opposing hill. 
That morn to many a trumpet clang, 
Twisel! thy rocks deep echo rang; 
And many a chief of birth and rank. 
Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. 
Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see 
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly, 
Had then from many an axe its doom. 
To give the marching columns room. 

And why stands Scotland idly now. 
Dark Flodden ! on thy airy brow, 
Since England gains the pass the while, 
And struggles through the deep defile? 



116 SCOTT 

What checks the fiery soul of James? 
Why sits that champion of the dames 

Inactive on his steed, 
•^ And sees between him and his land, 
Between him and Tweed's southern strand. 

His host Lord Surrey lead? 
What 'vails the vain knight-errant' s brand? 
O, Douglas, for thy leading wand ! 

Fierce Randolph, for thy speed ! 
O for one hour of Wallace wight, 
Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight, 
And cry 'Saint Andrew and our right! ' 
Another sight had seen that morn, 
From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, 
And Flodden had been Bannockburn ! 
The precious hour has passed in vain. 
And England's host has gained the plain; 
Wheeling their march, and circling still, 
Around the base of Flodden hill. 



THE ATTACK 

'But see! look up — on Flodden bent 
The Scottish foe has fired his tent. ' 

And sudden, as he spoke, 
From the sharp ridges of the hill. 
All downward to the banks of Till 

Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
Volumed and fast, and rolling far. 
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, 

As down the hill they broke; 



SCOTT 117 

Nor martial shout nor minstrel tone 
Announced their march; their tread alone, 
At times one warning trumpet blown, 

At times a stifled hum, 
Told England, from his mountain-throne 

King James did rushing come. 
Scarce could they hear, or see their foes, 

Until at weapon-point they close. 
They close in clouds of smoke and dust, 
With sword-sway and with lance's thrust; 

And such a yell was there 
Of sudden and portentous birth. 
As if men fought upon the earth 
And fiends in upper air; 
O life and death were in the shout, 
Recoil and rally, charge and rout, 

And triumph and despair. 
Long looked the anxious squires; their eye 
Could in the darkness nought descry. 

At length the freshening western blast 
Aside the shroud of battle cast; 
And first the ridge of mingled spears 
Above the brightening cloud appears; 
And in the smoke the pennons flew. 
As in the storm the white sea-mew. 
Then marked they, dashing broad and far, 
The broken billows of the war. 
And plumed crests of chieftains brave 
Floating like foam upon the wave; 
But nought distinct they see : 



118 SCOTT 

Wide raged the battle on the plain; 
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; 
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; 
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again. 

Wild and disorderly. 
Amid the scene of tumult, high 
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly: 
And stainless Tunstall's banner white 
And Edmund Howard's lion bright 
Still bear them bravely in the fight: 

Although against them come 
Of gallant Gordons many a one, 
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, 
And many a rugged Border clan. 

With Huntly and with Home. 

Far on the left, unseen the while, 
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle; 
Though there the western mountaineer 
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, 
And flung the feeble targe aside. 
And with both hands the broadsword plied. 
'Twas vain : but Fortune, on the right. 
With fickle smile cheered Scotland's fight. 
Then fell that spotless banner white. 

The Howard's lion fell; 
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 

Around the battle-yell. 
The Border slogan rent the sky ! 
A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : 



SCOTT 119 

Loud were the clanging blows; 
Advanced, forced back, now low, now high, 

The pennon sank and rose; 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, 

It wavered 'rnid the foes. 



THE LAST STAND 

By this, though deep the evening fell, 
Still rose the battle's deadly swell. 
For still the Scots, around their King, 
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
Where's now their victor vaward wing, 

Where Huntly, and where Home ? 
O for a blast of that dread horn, 
On Fontarabian echoes borne. 

That to King Charles did come. 
When Roland brave, and Olivier, 
And every paladin and peer. 

On Roncesvalles died ! 
Such blast might warn them, not in vain, 
To quit the plunder of the slain. 
And turn the doubtful day again. 

While yet on Flodden side 
Afar the Royal Standard flies. 
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies 

Our Caledonian pride ! 

But as they left the dark'ning heath. 
More desperate grew the strife of death. 



120 SCOTT 

The English shafts in volleys hailed, 
In headlong charge their horse assailed; 
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep 
To break the Scottish circle deep 

That fought around their King. 
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, 
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow. 

Unbroken was the ring; 
The stubborn spear-men still made good 
Their dark impenetrable wood, 
Each stepping where his comrade stood. 

The instant that he fell. 
No thought was there of dastard flight; 
Linked in the serried phalanx tight. 
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight. 

As fearlessly and well; 
Till utter darkness closed her wing 
O'er their thin host and wounded King. 
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands 
Led back from strife his shattered bands; 
And from the charge they drew, 
As mountain waves from wasted lands 

Sweep back to ocean blue. 
Then did their loss his foemen know; 
Their King, their Lords, their mightiest low. 
They melted from the field, as snow, 
When streams are swoln and south winds blow, 

Dissolves in silent dew. 
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash. 

While many a broken band 



SCOTT 121 

Disordered through her currents dash, 

To gain the Scottish land; 
To town and tower, to town and dale, 
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, 
And raise the universal wail. 
Tradition, legend, tune, and song 
Shall many an age that wail prolong: 
Still from the sire the son shall hear 
Of the stern strife and carnage drear 

Of Flodden's fatal field. 
Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear. 

And broken was her shield ! 

LVI 

THE CHASE 

The stag at eve had drunk his fill. 

Where danced the moon on Monan's rill. 

And deep his midnight lair had made 

In lone Glenartney's hazel shade; 

But, when the sun his beacon red 

Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head, 

The deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay 

Resounded up the rocky way, 

And faint from farther distance borne 

Were heard the clanging hoof and horn. 

As Chief, who hears his warder call, 
*To arms! the foemen storm the wall,' 
The antlered monarch of the waste 
Sprang from his heathery couch in haste. 



122 SCOTT 

But, ere his fleet career he took, 

The dew-drops from his flanks he shook; 

Like crested leader proud and high, 

Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky; 

A moment gazed adown the dale, 

A moment snuffed the tainted gale, 

A moment listened to the cry 

That thickened as the chase drew nigh; 

Then, as the headmost foes appeared, 

With one brave bound the copse he cleared, 

And, stretching forward free and far, 

Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var. 

Yelled on the view the opening pack; 
Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back : 
To many a mingled sound at once 
The awakened mountain gave response. 
A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong, 
Clattered a hundred steeds along, 
Their peal the merry horns rang out, 
A hundred voices joined the shout; 
With hark and whoop and wild halloo 
No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. 
Far from the tumult fled the roe, 
Close in her covert cowered the doe, 
The falcon from her cairn on high 
Cast on the rout a wondering eye, 
Till far beyond her piercing ken 
The hurricane had swept the glen. 
Faint and more faint, its failing din 
Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn, 



SCOTT 123 

And silence settled wide and still 
On the lone wood and mighty hill. 

Less loud the sounds of silvan war 
Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var, 
And roused the cavern where, 'tis told, 
A giant made his den of old; 
For ere that steep ascent was won, 
High in his pathway hung the sun, 
And many a gallant, stayed perforce. 
Was fain to breathe his faltering horse, 
And of the trackers of the deer 
Scarce half the lessening pack was near; 
So shrewdly on the mountain-side 
Had the bold burst their mettle tried. 

The noble stag was pausing now 
Upon the mountain's southern brow^ 
Where broad extended, far beneath. 
The varied realms of fair Menteith. 
With anxious eye he wandered o'er 
Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, 
And pondered refuge from his toil 
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. 
But nearer was the copsewood grey 
That waved and wept on Loch-Achray, 
And mingled with the pine-trees blue 
On the bold cliffs of Benvenue. 
Fresh vigour with the hope returned, 
With flying foot the heath he spurned, 
Held westward with unwearied race, 
And left behind the panting chase. 



124 SCOTT 

'Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er, 
As swept the hunt through Cambus-more; 
What reins were tightened in despair, 
•■ When rose Benledi's ridge in air; 
Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath, 
Who shunned to stem the flooded Teith, 
For twice that day from shore to shore 
The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. 
Few were the stragglers, following far. 
That reached the lake of Vennachar; 
And when the Brigg of Turk was won, 
The headmost horseman rode alone. 



Alone, but with unbated zeal. 

That horseman plied the scourge and steel; 

For jaded now and spent with toil, 

Embossed with foam and dark with soil. 

While every gasp with sobs he drew. 

The labouring stag strained full in view. 

Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, 

Unmatched for courage, breath, and speed, 

Fast on his flying traces came 

And all but won that desperate game; 

For scarce a spear's length from his haunch 

Vindictive toiled the bloodhounds staunch; 

Nor nearer might the dogs attain, 

Nor farther might the quarry strain. 

Thus up the margin of the lake. 

Between the precipice and brake, 

O'er stock and rock their race they take. 



SCOTT 125 

The Hunter marked that mountain high, 
The lone lake's western boundary, 
And deemed the stag must turn to bay 
Where that huge rampart barred the way; 
Already glorying in the prize. 
Measured his antlers with his eyes; 
For the death-wound and death-halloo 
Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew; 
But thundering as he came prepared. 
With ready arm and weapon bared, 
The wily quarry shunned the shock, 
And turned him from the opposing rock; 
Then, dashing down a darksome glen. 
Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken. 
In the deep Trosach's wildest nook 
His solitary refuge took. 
There, while close couched, the thicket shed 
Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head, 
He heard the baffled dogs in vain 
Rave through the hollow pass amain. 
Chiding the rocks that yelled again. 

Close on the hounds the hunter came. 
To cheer them on the vanished game; 
But, stumbling in the rugged dell. 
The gallant horse exhausted fell. 
The impatient rider strove in vain 
To rouse him with the spur and rein. 
For the good steed, his labours o'er, 
Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more; 
Then touched with pity and remorse 
He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse. 



126 SCOTT 

*I little thought, when first thy rein 
I slacked upon the banks of Seine, 
That Highland eagle e'er should feed 
^ On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed! 
Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, 
That costs thy life, my gallant grey ! ' 

Then through the dell his horn resounds. 
From vain pursuit to call the hounds. 
Back limped with slow and crippled pace 
The sulky leaders of the chase; 
Close to their master's side they pressed. 
With drooping tail and humbled crest; 
But still the dingle's hollow throat 
Prolonged the swelling bugle-note. 
The owlets started from their dream. 
The eagles answered with their scream, 
Round and around the sounds were cast, 
Till echoes seemed an answering blast; 
And on the hunter hied his way. 
To join some comrades of the day. 



LVII 

THE OUTLAW 

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 
And Greta woods are green, 

And you may gather garlands there 
Would grace a summer queen. 



k 



SCOTT 127 

And as I rode by Dalton-hall, 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A Maiden on the castle wall 

Was singing merrily: 

'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen.' 

*If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me. 

To leave both tower and town, 
Thou first must guess what life lead we 

That dwell by dale and down. 
And if thou canst that riddle read, 

As read full well you may, 
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, 

As blythe as Queen of May. ' 

Yet sang she, 'Brignall banks are fair. 

And Greta woods are green; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen. 

I read you, by your bugle-horn 

And by your palfrey good, 
I read you for a Ranger sworn 

To keep the king's greenwood.' 
*A Ranger, lady, winds his horn. 

And 'tis at peep of light; 
His blast is heard at merry morn, 

And mine at dead of night.' 



128 SCOTT 

Yet sang she 'Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are gay; 
I would I were with Edmund there, 

To reign his Queen of May ! 

With burnished brand and musketoon 

So gallantly you come, 
I read you for a bold Dragoon 

That lists the tuck of drum. ' 
'I list no more the tuck of drum. 

No more the trumpet hear; 
But when the beetle sounds his hum, 

My comrades take the spear. 

And O ! though Brignall banks be fair. 

And Greta woods be gay. 
Yet mickle must the maiden dare 

Would reign my Queen of May! 

Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I'll die ! 
The fiend, Vv'hose lantern lights the mead, 

Were better mate than I ! 
And when I'm with my comrades met, 

Beneath the Greenwood bough, 
What once we were we all forget, 

Nor think what we are now. 

Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair. 
And Greta woods are green. 

And you may gather garlands there 
Would grace a summer queen.' 



SCOTT 129 

LVIII 

PIBROCH 

Pibroch of Doniiil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan-Conuil. 
Come away, come away, 

Plark to the summons ! 
Come in your war array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen and 

From mountains so rocky, 
The war-pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlocky. 
Come every hill-plaid and 

True heart that wears one. 
Come every steel blade and 

Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd, 

The flock without shelter; 
Leave the corpse uninterred. 

The bride at the altar; 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges : 
Come with your fighting gear. 

Broadswords and tara:es. 



130 SCOTT 



Come as the winds come when 

Forests are rended, 
Come as the waves come when 

Navies are stranded : 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster, 
Chief, vassal, page and groom, 

Tenant and master. 

Fast they come, fast they come ; 

See how they gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

Forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Knell for the onset ! 



THE OMNIPOTENT 

'Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall, 
Thou aged carle so stern and grey? 

Dost thou its former pride recall. 
Or ponder how it passed aw:iy? ' 

'Know'st thou not me? ' the Deep Voice cried; 

'So long enjoyed, so often misused, 
Alternate, in thy fickle pride. 

Desired, neglected, and accused ! 



SCOTT 131 

Before my breath, like blazing flax, 

Man and his marvels pass away ! 
And changing empires wane and wax, 

Are founded, flourish, and decay. 

Redeem mine hours — the space is brief — 
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, 

And measureless thy joy or grief, 

When Time and thou shalt part for ever ! ' 



LX 

THE RED HARLAW 

The herring loves the merry moonlight. 

The mackerel loves the wind. 
But the oyster loves the dredging sang. 

For they come of a gentle kind. 

Now hand your tongue, baith wife and carle, 

And listen, great and sma', 
And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl 

That fought on the red Harlaw. 

The cronach's cried on Bennachie, 

And doun the Don and a', 
And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be 

For the sair field of Harlaw. 

They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, 
They hae bridled a hundred black. 

With a chafron of steel on each horse's head 
And a good knight upon his back. 



132 SCOTT 

They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, 

A mile, but barely ten, 
When Donald came branking down the brae 

Wi' twenty thousand men. 

I'heir tartans they were waving wide. 
Their glaives were glancing clear, 

The pibrochs rang frae side to side, 
Would deafen ye to hear. 

The great Earl in his stirrups stood, 

That Highland host to see : 
'Now here a knight that's stout and good 

May prove a jeopardie: 

What wouldst thou do, my squire so gay, 

That rides beside my reyne. 
Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day, 

And I were Roland Cheyne? 

To turn the rein were sin and shame, 

To fight were wondrous peril : 
What would ye do now, Roland CheynCj 

Were ye Glenallan's Earl? ' 

'Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide. 

And ye were Roland Cheyne, 
The spur should be in my horse's side. 

And the bridle upon his mane. 

If they hae twenty thousand blades, 

And we twice ten times ten, 
Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, 

And we are mail-clad men. 



SCOTT 133 

My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude, 

As through the moorland fern, 
Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude 

Grow cauld for Highland kerne.' 



LXI 

FAREWELL 

Farewell ! Farewell ! the voice you hear 
Has left its last soft tone with you; 

Its next must join the seaward cheer, 
And shout among the shouting crew. 

The accents which I scarce could form 
Beneath your frown's controlling check. 

Must give the word, above the storm, 
To cut the mast and clear the wreck. 

The timid eye I dared not raise, 

The hand that shook when pressed to thine. 
Must point the guns upon the chase. 

Must bid the deadly cutlass shine. 

To all I love, or hope, or fear, 

Honour or own, a long adieu ! 
To all that life has soft and dear. 

Farewell ! save memory of you ! 



134 SCOTT 

LXII 

BONNY DUNDEE 

To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who 

spoke, 
'Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to 

be broke; 
So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me, 
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can. 
Come saddle your horses, and call up your men; 
Come open the West Port, and let me gang free, 
And it's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee ! ' 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, 

The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat; 

But the Provost, douce man, said, 'Just e'en let 

him be. 
The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee.' 

As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, 

Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow; 

But the young plants of grace they looked couthie 

and slee. 
Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee ! 

With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket was 

crammed. 
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged; 
There was spite in each lock, there was fear in each e'e, 
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee. 



SCOTT 135 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, 

And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers; 

But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway 

was free, 
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock, 

And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke; 

'Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words 

or three 
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.' 

The Gordon demands of him which v/ay he goes : 
'Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose! 
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, 
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

'There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond 

Forth, 
If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in 

the North; 
There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times 

three. 
Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide; 
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; 
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free 
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, 
Ere I owe an usurper, I'll couch with the fox; 
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, 
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me ! ' 



136 COLERIDGE 

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were 

blown, 
The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, 
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee 
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come (ill up my can, 
Come saddle the horses and call up the men, 
Come open your gates, and let me gae free, 
For it's up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee! 

Sir Walter ScotL i 



LXIII 

ROMANCE 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

A stately pleasure-dome decree : 

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 

Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 

So twice five miles of fertile ground 

With walls and towers were girdled round : 

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 

Where blossomed many an incense -bearing tree; 

And here were forests ancient as the hills. 

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But O ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! 
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 



COLERIDGE 137 

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced : 
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: 
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves ; 

Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountah") and the caves. 

It was a miracle of rare device, 

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw : 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she played, 

Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song, 

To such a deep delight 'twould win me, 

That with music loud and long, 

I would build that dome in air, 



138 LANDOR 

That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
And all who heard should see them there, 
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware ! 
. His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 
Weave a circle round him thrice, 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey-dew hath fed, 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

Coleridge. 

LXIV 

SACRIFICE 

Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom 
At Aulis, and v/hen all beside the King 
Had gone away, took his right hand, and said, 
' O father ! I am young and very happy. 
I do not think the pious Calchas heard 
Distinctly what the Goddess spake. Old-age 
Obscures the senses. If niy nurse, who knew 
My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood 
While I was resting on her knee both arms 
And hitting it to make her mind my words. 
And looking in her face, and she in mine. 
Might he not also hear one word amiss. 
Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus ? ' 
The father placed his cheek upon her head. 
And tears dropt down it, but the king of men 
Replied not. llien the maiden spake once more. 
'O father! say'st thou nothing? Hear'st thou not 
Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour. 



LANDOR 1-59 

Listened to fondly, and awakened me 

To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, 

When it was inarticulate as theirs, 

And the down deadened it within the nest? ' 

He moved her gently from him, silent still, 

And this, and this alone, brought tears from her, 

Although she saw fate nearer: then with sighs, 

'I thought to have laid down my hair before 

Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed 

Her polisht altar with my virgin blood; 

I thought to have selected the white flowers 

To please the Nymphs, and to have asked of each 

By name, and with no sorrowful regret. 

Whether, since both my parents willed the change, 

I might at Hymen's feet bend my dipt brow; 

And (after those who mind us girls the most) 

Adore our ov/n Athena, that she would 

Regard me mildly with her azure eyes. 

But, father! to see you no more, and see 

Your love, O father ! go ere I am gone. ' . . . 

Gently he moved her off, and drev/ her back, 

Bending his lofty head far over hers, 

And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. 

He turned away; not far, but silent still. 

She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh. 

So long a silence seemed the approach of death, 

And like it. Once again she raised her voice. 

'O father! if the ships are now detained. 

And all your vows move not the Gods above, 

When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer 

The less to them : and purer can there be 



140 CAMPBELL 

Any, or more fervent than the daughter's prayer 

For her dear father's safety and success? ' 

A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. 

An aged man now entered, and without 

One word, stept slowly on, and took the wrist 

Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw 

The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. 

Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried, 

'O father! grieve no more: the ships can sail.' 

Landor. 

LXV 

SOLDIER AND SAILOR 

I LOVE contemplating, apart 
From all his homicidal glory, 

The traits that soften to our heart 
Napoleon's story! 

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne 
Armed in our island every freeman, 

His navy chanced to capture one 
Poor British seaman. 

They suffered him, I know not how, 
Unprisoned on the shore to roam ; 

And aye was bent his longing brow 
On England's home. 

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight 
Of birds to Britain half-way over 

With envy; they could reach the white 
Dear cliffs of Dover. 



CAMPBELL 111 

A stormy midnight watch, he thought, 

Than this sojourn would have been dearer, 

If but the storm his vessel brought 
To England nearer. 

At last, when care had banished sleep. 

He saw one morning — dreaming — doating. 

An empty hogshead from the deep 
Come shoreward floating; 

He hid it in a cave, and wrought 
The live-long day laborious; lurking 

Until he launched a tiny boat 
By mighty working. 

Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond 
Description, wretched : such a wherry 

Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, 
Or crossed a ferry. 

For ploughing in the salt-sea field. 

It would have made the boldest shudder; 

Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled. 
No sail — no rudder. 

From neighb'ring woods he interlaced 
His sorry skiff with wattled v.'illows; 

And thus equipped he would have passed 
The foaming billows — 

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, 

His little Argo sorely jeering; 
Till tidings of him chanced to reach 

Napoleon's hearing. 



142 CAMPBELL 

With folded arms Napoleon stood, 
Serene alike in peace and danger; 

And, in his wonted attitude, 
Addressed the stranger: — 

'Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass 
On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned; 

Thy heart with some sweet British lass 
Must be impassioned.' 

*I have no sweetheart,' said the lad; 

'But — absent long from one another — 
Great was the longing that I had 

To see my mother. ' 

'And so thou shalt, ' Napoleon said, 
'Ye've both my favour fairly v/on; 

A noble mother must have bred 
So brave a son. ' 

He gave the tar a piece of gold, 

And, with a flag of truce, commanded 

He should be shipped to England Old, 
And safely landed. 

Our sailor oft could scantly shift 
To find a dinner, plain and hearty; 

But never changed the coin and gift 
Of Bonaparte. 



CAMPBELL 143 

LXVI 

'YE MARINERS' 

Ye Mariners of England ! 

That guard our native seas; 

Whose flag has braved a thousand years 

The battle and the breeze ! 

Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe ! 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 
Shall start from every wave ! 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 
And Ocean was their grave : 
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 
Your manly hearts shall glow, 
As ye sweep through the deep, 
While the stormy winds do blow; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow- 
Britannia needs no bulwarks, 
No towers along the steep; 
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 
Her home is on the deep. 
With thunders from her native oak 
She quells the floods below, 



144 CAMPBELL 

As they roar on the shore, 
When the stormy winds do blow; 
When the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn; 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name. 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 



LXVII 

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 

Of Nelson and the North 

Sing the glorious day's renown. 

When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown. 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 

By each gun the lighted brand 

In a bold determined hand. 

And the Prince of all the land 

Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat, 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 



CAMPBELL 145 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path, 

There was silence deep as death; 

And the boldest held his breath, 

For a time. 

But the might of England flushed 

To anticipate the scene; 

And her van the fleeter rushed 

O'er the deadly space between. 

'Hearts of oak! ' our captains cried; when each 

gun 
From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 

Again! again! again! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane, 

To our cheering sent us back; — 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom : — 

Then cease — and all is wail. 

As they strike the shattered sail; 

Or, in conflagration pale 

Light the gloom. 

Now joy, Old England, raise 
For the tidings of thy might. 
By the festal cities' blaze. 
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; 



146 ELLIOTT 

And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 
Let us think of them that sleep 
Full many a fathom deep 
X By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 



Campbell, 



Lxvm 
BATTLE SONG 

Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark; 

What then? 'Tisday! 
We sleep no more; the cock crows — hark! 

To arms ! away ! 
They come ! they come ! the knell is rung 

Of us or them; 
Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung 

Of gold and gem. 
What collared hound of lawless sway, 

To famine dear. 
What pensioned slave of Attila, 

Leads in the rear? 
Come they from Scythian wilds afar 

Our blood to spill? 
Wear they the livery of the Czar? 

They do his will. 
Nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette, 

Nor plume, nor torse — 
No splendour gilds, all sternly met. 

Our foot and horse. 



CUNNINGHAM 147 

But, dark and still, we inly glow, 

Condensed in ire ! 
Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know 

Our gloom is fire. 
In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, 

Insults the land; 
Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours, 

And God's right hand! 
Madmen ! they trample into snakes 

The wormy clod ! 
Like fire, beneath their feet awakes 

The sword of God ! 
Behind, before, above, below, 

They rouse the brave; 
Where'er they go, they make a foe. 

Or find a grave. 

Elliott. 

LXIX 

LOYALTY 

Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, 

O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 

When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, 

The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie ; 

Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, 

O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 

The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa', 
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a'; 
But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, 
An' green it will grow in my ain countrie. 



148 CUNNINGHAM 

Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, 
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 

The^great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save; 
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave : 
But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, 
'I'll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie.' 
Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, 
Kame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 



LXX 

A SEA-SONG 

A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast 
And fills the white and rustling sail 

And bends the gallant mast; 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys. 

While like the eagle free 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 

O for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry; 
But give to me the snoring breeze 

And white waves heaving high; 
And white waves heaving high, my lads, 

The good ship tight and free — 
The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 



PROCTER 149 

There's tempest in yon horned moon, 

And lightning in yon cloud; 
But hark the music, mariners ! 

The wind is piping loud; 
The wind is piping loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashes free — 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 

Cunningham, 

LXXI 

A SONG OF THE SEA 

The Sea ! the Sea ! the open Sea ! 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 

Without a mark, without a bound. 

It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round; 

It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; 

Or like a cradled creature lies, 

I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea! 

I am where I would ever be; 

With the blue above, and the blue below, 

And silence wheresoe'er I go; 

If a storm should come and awake the deep, 

What matter? /shall ride and sleep. 

I love (O ! how I love) to ride 
On the fierce foaming bursting tide. 
When every mad wave drowns the moon. 
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, 
And tells how goeth the world below. 
And why the south-west blasts do blow. 



150 BYRON 

I never was on the dull, tame shore, 
But I loved the great Sea more and more, 
And backwards liew to her billowy breast, 
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nestj 
And a mother she was, and is to me; 
For I was born on the open Sea ! 

The waves were white, and red the morn, 
In the noisy hour when I was born; 
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, 
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; 
And never was heard such an outcry wild 
As welcomed to life the Ocean-child ! 

I've lived since then, in calm and strife. 
Full fifty summers a sailor's life. 
With wealth to spend, and a power to range. 
But never have sought, nor sighed for change ; 
And Death, whenever he come to me, 
Shall come on the wide unbounded Sea ! 

Procter. 

Lxxn 

SENNACHERIB 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold. 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green. 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 



I 



BYRON 151 

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown. 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill. 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew 
still! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf. 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 

Lxxin 
THE STORMING OF CORINTH 

THE SIGNAL 

The night is past, and shines the sun 
As if that morn were a jocund one. 
Lightly and brightly breaks away 
The Morning from her mantle grey. 
And the noon will look on a sultry day. 



152 BYRON 



Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 
And the flap of the banners that flit as they're borne, 
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 
And the clash, and the shout, 'They come! they 

come ! ' 
The horsetails are plucked from the ground, and the 

sword 
From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the 

word. 
Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
Strike your tents, and throng to the van; 
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
That the fugitive may flee in vain. 
When he breaks from the town; and none escape, 
Aged or young, in the Christian shape; 
While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein; 
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane; 
White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 
The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit; 
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar. 
And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 
Forms in his phalanx each janizar; 
Alp at their head; his right arm is bare, 
So is the blade of his scimitar; 
The khan and the pachas are all at their post; 
The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
When the culverin's signal is fired, then on; 
Leave not in Corinth a living one — 



1 



BYRON 153 

A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 

God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 

Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 

'There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale ; 

And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail ? 

He who first downs with the red cross may crave 

His heart's dearest wish; let him ask it, and have! ' 

Thus uttered Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier; 

The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, 

And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire: — 

Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 



THE ASSAULT 

As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 

From the cliffs invading dash 

Huge fragments, sapped by the ceaseless flow, 

Till white and thundering down they go. 

Like the avalanche's snow 

On the Alpine vales below; 

Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 

Corinth's sons were downward borne 

By the long and oft renewed 

Charge of the Moslem multitude. 

In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 

Heaped by the host of the infidel, 

Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 

Nothing there, save death, was mute : 

Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 

For quarter or for victory, 



154 BYRON 

Mingle there with the volleying thunder, 

Which makes the distant cities wonder 

How the sounding battle goes, 

If with them, or for their foes; 

If they must mourn, or may rejoice 

In that annihilating voice, 

Which pierces the deep hills through and through 

With an echo dread and new : 

You might have heard it, on that day, 

O'er Salamis and Megara; 

(We have heard the hearers say,) 

Even unto Piraeus' bay. 

From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 

Sabres and swords with blood were gilt; 

But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, 

And all but the after carnage done. 

Shriller shrieks now mingling come 

From within the plundered dome : 

Hark to the haste of flying feet 

That splash in the blood of the slippery street; 

But here and there, where 'vantage ground 

Against the foe may still be found. 

Desperate groups, of twelve or ten. 

Make a pause, and turn again — 

With banded backs against the wall, 

Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 

There stood an old man — his hairs were white. 
But his veteran arm was full of might : 
So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 



II 



BYRON 155 

The dead before him, on that day, 

In a semicircle lay; 

Still he combated unwounded, 

Though retreating, unsurrounded. 

Many a scar of former fight 

Lurked beneath his corselet bright; 

But of every wound his body bore, 

Each and all had been ta'en before : 

Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 

Few of our youth could cope with him, 

And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 

Outnumbered his thin hairs of silver grey. 

From right to left his sabre swept; 

Many an Othman mother wept 

Sons that were unborn, when dipped 

His weapon first in Moslem gore, 

Ere his years could count a score. 

Of all he might have been the sire 

Who fell that day beneath his ire : 

For, sonless left long years ago, 

His wrath made many a childless foe; 

And since the day, when in the strait 

His only boy had met his fate. 

His parent's iron hand did doom 

More than a human hecatomb. 

If shades by carnage be appeased, 

Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 

Than his, Minotti's son, who died 

Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 

Buried he lay, where thousands before 

For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore ; 



156 BYRON 

What of them is left, to tell 

Where they lie, and how they fell? 
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves; 
But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 

THE MAGAZINE 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 

Minotti stood o'er the altar-stone: 

Madonna's face upon him shone, 

Painted in heavenly hues above, 

With eyes of light and looks of love; 

And placed upon that holy shrine 

To fix our thoughts on things divine, 

When pictured there, we kneeling see 

Her, and the boy-God on her knee, 

Smiling sweetly on each prayer 

To heaven, as if to waft it there. 

Still she smiled; even now she smiles. 

Though slaughter streams along her aisles : 

Minotti lifted his aged eye, 

And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 

Then seized a torch which blazed thereby; 

And still he stood, while with steel and flame 

Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 
Contained the dead of ages gone; 
Their names were on the graven floor, 
But now illegible with gore ; 
The car\'ed crests, and curious hues 
The varied marble's veins diffuse, 






BYRON 157 

Were smeared, and slippery, stained, and strown 

With broken swords and helms o'erthrown: 

There were dead above, and the dead below 

Lay cold in many a coffined row; 

You might see them piled in sable state. 

By a pale light through a gloomy grate; 

But War had entered their dark caves, 

And stored along the vaulted graves 

Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 

In masses by the fleshless dead : 

Here, throughout the siege, had been 

The Christians' chief est magazine; 
To these a late formed train now led, 
Minotti's last and stern resource 
Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 

The foe came on, and few remain 
To strive, and those must strive in vain : 
For lack of further lives, to slake 
The thirst of vengeance now awake. 
With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 
And lop the already lifeless head, 
And fell the statues from their niche, 
And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 
And from each other's rude hands wrest 
The silver vessels saints had blessed. 
To the high altar on they go; 
O, but it made a glorious show ! 
On its table still behold 
The cup of consecrated gold; 
Massy and deep, a glittering prize. 
Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes: 



158 BYRON 

That morn it held the holy wine, 

Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 

Which his worshippers drank at the break of day, 

To shrive their souls ere they joined in the fray. 

Still a few drops within it lay; 

And round the sacred table glow 

Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 

From the purest metal cast; 

A spoil — the richest, and the last. 

So near they came, the nearest stretched 
To grasp the spoil he almost reached, 

When old Minotti's hand 
Touched with the torch the train — 

'Tis fired! 
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain. 

The turbaned victors, the Christian band, 
All that of living or dead remain, 
Hurl'd on high with the shivered fane. 

In one wild roar expired ! 
The shattered town — the walls thrown down — 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent. 

As if an earthquake passed — 
The thousand shapeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven 

By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaimed the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore : 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there below: 



BYRON 159 

Many a tall and goodly man, 

Scorched and shrivelled to a span, 

When he fell to earth again 

Like a cinder strewed the plain : 

Down the ashes shower like rain; 

Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles 

With a thousand circling wrinkles; 

Some fell on the shore, but far away 

Scattered o'er the isthmus lay; 

Christian or Moslem, which be they? 

Let their mother say and say! 

When in cradled rest they lay, 

And each nursing mother smiled 

On the sweet sleep of her child. 

Little deemed she such a day 

^^^ould rend those tender limbs away. 

Not the matrons that them bore 

Could discern their offspring more; 

That one moment left no trace 

More of human form or face 

Save a scattered scalp or bone : 

And down came blazing rafters, strewn 

Around, and many a falling stone, 

Deeply dinted in the claj'^. 

All blackened there and reeking lay. 

All the living things that heard 

That deadly earth-shock disappeared: 

The wild birds flew; the wild dogs fled, 

And howling left the unburied dead; 

The camels from their keepers broke; 

The distant steer forsook the yoke — 



160 



BYRON 



The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain. 
And burst his girth, and tore his rein; 
The bull-frog's note from out the marsh 
Deep-mouthed arose, arid doubly harsh; 
The wolves yelled on the caverned hill 
Where echo rolled in thunder still; 
The jackals' troop in gathered cry 
Bayed from afar complainingly. 
With a mixed and mournful sound, 
Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 
With sudden wing and ruffled breast 
The eagle left his rocky nest, 
And mounted nearer to the sun, 
The clouds beneath him seemed so dun; 
Their smoke assailed his startled beak. 
And made him higher soar and shriek — 
Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 



LXXIV 



ALHAMA 



The Moorish King rides up and down, 
Through Granada's royal town; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama' s city fell : 
In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 



BYRON 161 

He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
And through the street directs his course; 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

When the Alhambra walls he gained, 
On the moment he ordained 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar, 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain — 

Woe is me, Alhama ! — 

Then the Moors, by this aware, 
That bloody Mars recalled them there 
One by one, and two by two. 
To a mighty squadron grew. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

Out then spake an aged Moor 
In these words the king before, 
'Wherefore call on us, O King? 
What may mean this gathering? ' 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

'Friends! ye have, alas! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow; 



162 BYRON 

That the Christians, stern and bold, 
Have obtained Alhama's hold.' 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
With his beard so white to see, 
'Good King! thou art justly served. 
Good King ! this thou hast deserved. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower; 
And strangers were received by thee 
Of Cordova the Chivalry. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And for this, O King ! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement : 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm. 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 

Woe is me, Alhama 1 

He who holds no laws in awe, 
He must perish by the law; 
And Granada must be won. 
And thyself with her undone.' 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes, 
The monarch's wrath began to rise, 
Because he answered, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 



BYRON 163 

'There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings : ' 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish King, and doomed him dead. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
Though thy beard so hoary be, 
The King hath sent to have thee seized, 
For Alhama's loss displeased. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone; 
That this for thee should be the law, 
And others tremble when they saw. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

'Cavalier, and man of worth! 
Let these words of mine go forth ! 
Let the Moorish Monarch know, 
That to him I nothing owe. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

But on my soul Alhama weighs. 
And on my inmost spirit preys; 
And if the King his land hath lost, 
Yet others may have lost the most. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Sires have lost their children, wives 
Their lords, and valiant men their lives ! 



164 BYROxN 

One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

-I lost a damsel in that hour. 
Of all the land the loveliest flower; 
Doubloons a hundred I would pay. 
And think her ransom cheap that day.' 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And as these things the old Moor said, 
They severed from the trunk his head; 
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
'Twas carried, as the King decreed. 

Woe is m.e, Alhama ! 

And men and infants therein weep 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep; 
Granada's ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

And from the windows o'er the walls 
The sable web of mourning falls; 
The King weeps as a woman o'er 
His loss, for it is much and sore. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

LXXV 

FRIENDSHIP 

My boat is on the shore, 
And my bark is on the sea; 

But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here's a double health to thee ! 



BYRON 165 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 

And a smile to those who hate; 
And, whatever sky's above me, 

Here's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me, 

Yet it still shall bear me on; 
Though a desert should surround me, 

It hath springs that may be won. 

Were 't the last drop in the well, 

As I gasped upon the brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 

With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be, 'Peace with thine and mine. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! ' 



LXXVI 

THE RACE WITH DEATH 

O Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls 
Are level with the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 

A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
What should thy sons do? — anything but weep: 
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
In contrast with their fathers — as the slime, 
The dull green ooze of the receding deep. 



166 BYRON 

Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam 

That drives the sailor shipless to his home, 

Are they to those that were; and thus they creep, 

Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping 

'streets. 
O agony ! that centuries should reap 
No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years 
Of wealth and glory turned to dust and tears, 
And every monument the stranger meets, 
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; 
And even the Lion all subdued appears, 
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum 
With dull and daily dissonance repeats 
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 
The soft waves, once all musical to song, 
That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng 
Of gondolas and to the busy hum 
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 
Were but the overbeating of the heart. 
And flow of too much happiness, which needs 
The aid of age to turn its course apart 
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. 
But these are better than the gloomy errors. 
The weeds of nations in their last decay. 
When Vice walks forth with her unsoftened terrors, 
And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; 
And Hope is nothing but a false delay. 
The sick man's lightening half an hour ere death, 
When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, 
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 



BYRON 167 

Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, 

Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; 

Yet so relieving the o'er- tortured clay, 

To him appears renewal of his breath, 

And freedom the mere numbness of his chain; 

And then he talks of life, and how again 

He feels his spirits soaring — albeit weak. 

And of the fresher air, which he would seek: 

And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, 

That his thin finger feels not what it clasps; 

And so the film comes o'er him, and the dizzy 

Chamber swims round and round, and shadows busy, 

At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam. 

Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, 

And all is ice and blackness, and the earth 

That which it was the moment ere our birth. 

LXXVII 

THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all except their sun is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 

Have found the fame your shores refuse: 
Their place of birth alone is mute 



168 BYRON 

To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.' 

The mountains look on Marathon — 
•v And Marathon looks on the sea; 
And, musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free; 
For, standing on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 

And ships by thousands lay below, 
And men in nations; — all were his! 

He counted them at break of day, 

And when the sun set, where were they? 

And where are they? and where art thou, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now, 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine. 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

'Tis something in the dearth of fame. 
Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush, for Greece a tear ! 

Must 7ae but weep o'er days more blest? 

Must 7ve but blush? Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 



BYRON 169 

Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopyl^ ! 

What, silent still? and silent all? 

Ah ! no : the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, 'Let one living head, 
But one arise, — we come, we come ! ' 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain: strike other chords; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call, 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; 

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 
Of two such lessons, why forget 

The nobler and the manlier one? 
You have the letters Cadmus gave; 
Think ye he meant them for a slave? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine: 

He served — but served Polycrates : 
A tyrant; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 
TJiat tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 



170 BYROIsL 

Another despot of the kind ! 

Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 
- On Suli's rock and Parga's shore 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells; 

In native swords and native ranks 
The only hope of courage dwells : 

But Turkish force and Latin fraud 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine; 

But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep. 
Where nothing save the waves and I 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 



BYRON 171 



LXXVIII 

HAIL AND FAREWELL 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it hath ceased to move : 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love ! 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 
Is lone as some volcanic isle; 
No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share. 
But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus, and 'tis not here. 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor noto 
Where glory decks the hero's bier. 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
The Spartan borne upon his shield 
Was not more free. 



172 WOLFE 

Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 

Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down, 

Unworthy manhood ! unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? 

The lad of honourable death 
Is here : up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best; 

Then look around, and choose thy ground, 

And take thy rest. 

Byron. 

LXXIX 

AFTER CORUNNA 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning. 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 



WOLFE 173 

No useless cofifin enclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound himj 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead. 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 
head, 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — 
But we left him alone with his glory. 



174 MARRYAT 

LXXX 

THE OLD NAVY 

The. captain stood on the carronade: 'First lieu- 
tenant,' says he, 
'Send all m}' merry men aft here, for they must list 

to me; 
I haven't the gift of the gab, my sons — because I'm 

bred to the sea; 
That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight 
with we. 

And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as 

I've been to sea, 
I've fought 'gainst every odds — but I've 
gained the victory ! 

That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don't 

take she, 
'Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture zve; 
I haven't the gift of the gab, my boys; so each man 

to his gun; 
If she's not mine in half an hour, I'll flog each 
mother's son. 

For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as 

I've been to sea, 
I've fought 'gainst every odds — and I've 
gained the victory ! ' 

We fought for twenty minutes, when the French- 
man had enough; 

'I little thought,' said he, 'that your men were of 
such stuff ' ; 



HEMANS 175 

I 

Our captain took the Frenchman's sword, a low bow 

made to he; ^ 
'I haven't the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite 
I wish to be. 

And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as 

I've been to sea, 
I've fought 'gainst every odds — and I've 
gained the victory ! ' 

Our captain sent for all of us: 'My merry men,' said 

he, 

'I haven't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I 

thankful be : 

You've done your duty handsomely, each man stood 

to his gun; 

If you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, I'd have 

flogged each mother's son. 

For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as 

I'm at sea, 

I'll fight 'gainst every odds — and I'll gain 

the victory ! ' 

Marryat, 

LXXXI 

CASABIANCA 

The boy stood on the burning deck 
Whence all but he had fled; 

The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 



176 HEM^S 



Yet beautiful and bri^t he stood. 

As born to rule the^orm : 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go 

Without his father's word; 
That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud : ' Say, father ! say 

If yet my task is done ! ' 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

'Speak, father! ' once again he cried, 

'If I may yet be gone ! ' 
And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath. 

And in his waving hair; 
He looked from that lone post of death 

In still yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

'My father! must I stay? ' 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild. 

They caught the flag on high, 
And streamed above the gallant child 

Like banners in the sky. 



HEMANS 177 

There came a burst of thunder-sound — 

The boy — O ! where was he ? 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea: 

With mast, and hehn, and pennon fair, 

That well had borne their part ! 
But the noblest thing which perished there 

Was that young faithful heart. 



LXXXII 

THE PILGRIM FATHERS 

The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock -bound coast, 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes. 
They, the true-hearted, came; 

Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
And the trumpet that sings of fame; 

Not as the flying come. 
In silence and in fear; — 



178 HEMANS 

They shook the depths of the desert gloom 
With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard and the sea; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
To the anthem of the free ! 



The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band; 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye. 

Lit by her deep love's truth; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar? 

Bright jewels of the mine? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? 

They sought a faith's pure shrine! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod. 
They have left unstained what there they found — 

Freedom to worship God. 



J 



KEATS : MACAULAY 179 

LXXXIII 

TO THE ADVENTUROUS 

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 
Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne : 
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: 
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken; 
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
Looked at each other with a wild surmise — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



Keats. 



LXXXIV 

HORATIUS 

THE TRYSTING 

Lars Porsena of Clusium 

By the Nine Gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin 

Should suffer wrong no more. 
By the Nine Gods he swore it, 

And named a trysting day, 
And bade his messengers ride forth 
East and west and south and north 

To summon his array. 



180 MACAULAY 

East and west and south and north 

The messengers ride fast, 
And tower and town and cottage 

Have heard the trumpet's blast. 
Shame on the false Etruscan 

Who lingers in his home, 
When Porsena of Clusium 

Is on the march for Rome. 

The horsemen and the footmen 

Are pouring in amain 
From many a stately market-place, 

From many a fruitful plain; 
From many a lonely hamlet 

Which, hid by beech and pine, 
Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest 

Of purple Apennine; 

From lordly Volaterrse, 

Where scowls the far-famed hold 
Piled by the hands of giants 

For godlike kings of old; 
From sea-girt Populonia 

Whose sentinels descry 
Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops 

Fringing the southern sky; 

From the proud mart of Pisse, 
Queen of the western waves, 

Where ride Massilia's triremes 
Heavy with fair-haired slaves; 



MACAULAY 181 

From where sweet Clanis wanders 
Through corn and vines and flowers; 

From where Cortona lifts to heaven 
Her diadem of towers. 

Tall are the oaks whose acorns 

Drop in dark Auser's rill; 
Fat are the stags that champ the boughs 

Of the Ciminian hill; 
Beyond all streams Clitumnus 

Is to the herdsman dear; 
Best of all pools the fowler loves 

The great Volsinian mere. 

But now no stroke of woodman 

Is heard by Auser's rill; 
No hunter tracks the stag's green path 

Up the Ciminian hill; 
Unwatched along Clitumnus 

Grazes the milk-white steer; 
Unharmed the water-fowl may dip 

In the Volsinian mere. 

The harvests of Arretium 

This year old men shall reap; 
This year young boys in Urabro 

Shall plunge the struggling sheep; 
And in the vats of Luna 

This year the must shall foam 
Round the white feet of laughing girls 

Whose sires have marched to Rome. 



182 MACAULAY 

There be thirty chosen prophets. 

The wisest of the land, 
Who alway by Lars Porsena 

Botli morn and evening stand : 
Evening and morn the Thirty 

Have turned the verses o'er, 
Traced from the right on linen white 

By mighty seers of yore. 

And with one voice the Thirty 

Have their glad answer given : 
*Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; 

Go forth, beloved of Heaven; 
Go, and return in glory 

To Clusium's royal dome, 
And hang round Nurscia's altars 

The golden shields of Rome.* 

And now hath every city 

Sent up her tale of men; 
The foot are fourscore thousand. 

The horse are thousands ten. 
Before the gates of Sutrium 

Is met the great array. 
A proud man was Lars Porsena 

Upon the trysting day ! 

For all the Etruscan armies 
Were ranged beneath his eye. 

And many a banished Roman, 
And many a stout ally; 






MACAULAY 183 

And with a mighty following 

To join the muster came 
The Tusculan Mamilius, 

Prince of the Latian name. 

THE TROUBLE IN ROME 

But by the yellow Tiber 

Was tumult and affright : 
From all the spacious champaign 

To Rome men took their flight. 
A mile around the city 

The throng stopped up the ways; 
A fearful sight it was to see 

Through two long nights and days. 

For aged folk on crutches, 

And women great with child, 
And mothers sobbing over babes 

That clung to them and smiled. 
And sick men borne in litters 

High on the necks of slaves, 
And troops of sun-burned husbandmen 

With reaping-hooks and staves. 

And droves of mules and asses 

Laden with skins of wine, 
And endless flocks of goats and sheep, 

And endless herds of kine, 
And endless trains of waggons 

That creaked beneath the weight 
Of corn-sacks and of household goods. 

Choked every roaring gate. 



184 MACAULAY 

Now from the rock Tarpeian 

Could the wan burghers spy 
The line of blazing villages 

Red in the midnight sky. 
The Fathers of the City, 

They sat all night and day, 
For every hour some horseman came 

With tidings of dismay. 

To eastward and to westward 

Have spread the Tuscan bands ; 
Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote 

In Crustumerium stands. 
Verbenna down to Ostia 

Hath wasted all the plain; 
Astur hath stormed Janiculum, 

And the stout guards are slain. 

I wis, in all the Senate 

There was no heart so bold 
But sore it ached, and fast it beat, 

When that ill news was told. 
Forthwith up rose the Consul, 

Up rose the Fathers all; 
In haste they girded up their gowns. 

And hied them to the wall. 

They held a council standing 

Before the River-Gate; 
Short time was there, ye well may guess. 

For musing or debate. 



MACAULAY 185 

Out spake the Consul roundly: 

'The bridge must straight go down; 

For, since Janiculum is lost, 
Nought else can save the town.' 

Just then a scout came flying, 

All wild with haste and fear : 
'To arms! to arms! Sir Consul: 

Lars Porsena is here.' 
On the low hills to westward 
. The Consul fixed his eye. 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Rise fast along the sky. 

And nearer fast and nearer 

Doth the red whirlwind come; 
And louder still and still more loud, 
From underneath that rolling cloud 
Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, 

The trampling, and the hum. 
And plainly and more plainly 

Now through the gloom appears, 
Far to left and far to right, 
In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 
The long array of helmets bright, 

The long array of spears. 

And plainly and more plainly 

Above that glimmering line 
Now might ye see the banners 

Of twelve fair cities shine; 



186 MACAU LAY 

But the banner of proud Clusium 

Was highest of them all, 
The terror of the Umbrian, 
■ The terror of the Gaul. 

And plainly and more plainly 

Now might the burghers know, 
By port and vest, by horse and crest, 

Each warlike Lucumo. 
There Cilnius of Arretium 

On his fleet roan was seen; 
And Astur of the fourfold shield, 
Girt with the brand none else may wield, 
Tolumnius with the belt of gold. 
And dark Verbenna from the hold 

By reedy Thrasymene. 

Fast by the royal standard 

O'erlooking all the war, 
Lars Porsena of Clusium 

Sate in his ivory car. 
By the right wheel rode Mamilius, 

Prince of the Latian name; 
And by the left false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shame. 

But when the face of Sextus 

Was seen among the foes, 
A yell that rent the firmament 

From all the town arose. 



MACAULAY 187 

On the house-tops was ho woman 
But spat towards him, and hissed; 

No child but screamed out curses, 
And shook its little fist. 

But the Consul's brow was sad. 

And the Consul's speech was low. 
And darkly looked he at the wall, 

And darkly at the foe. 
'Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down; 
And if they once may win the bridge, 

What hope to save the town? ' 

Then out spake brave Horatius, 

The Captain of the gate : 
*To every man upon this earth 

Death cometh soon or late; 
And how can man die better 

Than facing fearful odds, 
For the ashes of his fathers 

And the temples of his Gods, 

And for the tender mother 

Who dandled him to rest. 
And for the wife who nurses 

His baby at her breast. 
And for the holy maidens 

Who feed the eternal flame. 
To save them from false Sextus 

That wrought the deed of shame? 



188 MACAU LAY 

Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 
With all the speed ye may; 

I, with two more to help me, 
-^ Will hold the foe in play. 

in yon strait path a thousand 
May well be stopped by three. 

Now who will stand on either hand, 
And keep the bridge with me? ' 

Then out spake Spurius Lartius, 

A Ramnian proud was he : 
*Lo, I will stand at thy right hand. 

And keep the bridge with thee.' 
And out spake strong Heminius, 

Of Titian blood was he : 
*I will abide on thy left side, 

And keep the bridge with thee.' 

'Horatius,' quoth the Consul, 

'As thou sayest, so let it be.' 
And straight against that great array 

Forth went the dauntless Three. 
For Romans in Rome's quarrel 

Spared neither land nor gold. 
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, 

In the brave days of old. 

Then none was for a party; 

Then all were for the state; 
Then the great man helped the poor, 

And the poor man loved the great: 



MACAULAY 189 

Then lands were fairly portioned; 

Then spoils were fairly sold : 
The Romans were like brothers 

In the brave days of old. 

Now Roman is to Roman 

More hateful than a foe, 
And the Tribunes beard the high, 

And the Fathers grind the low. 
As we wax hot in faction, 

In battle we wax cold : 
Wherefore men fight not as they fought 

In the brave days of old. 

THE KEEPING OF THE BRIDGE 

Now while the Three were tightening 

Their harness on their backs. 
The Consul was ihe foremost man 

To take in hand an axe : 
And Fathers mixed with Commons 

Seized hatchet, bar, and crow. 
And smote upon the planks above, 

And loosed the props below. 

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 

Right glorious to behold, 
Came flashing back the noonday light. 
Rank behind rank, like surges bright 

Of a broad sea of gold. 
Four hundred trumpets sounded 

A peal of warlike glee. 



190 MACAULAY 

As that great host, with measured tread, 
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, 

Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head. 
Where stood the dauntless Three. 

The Three stood calm and silent, 

And looked upon the foes. 
And a great shout of laughter 

From all the vanguard rose : 
And forth three chiefs came spurring 

Before that deep array; 
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, 
And lifted high their shields, and flew 

To win the narrow way; 

Annus from green Tifernum, 

Lord of the Hill of Vines; 
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 

Sicken in Ilva's mines; 
And Picus, long to Clusium 

Vassal in peace and war. 
Who led to fight his Urabrian powers 
From that grey crag where, girt with towers. 
The fortress of Nequinum lowers 

O'er the pale waves of Nar. 

Stout Lartius hurled down Annus 

Into the stream beneath : 
Herminius struck at Seius, 

And clove him to the teeth : 



MACAULAY 191 

At Picus brave Horatius 

Darted one fiery thrust, 
And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms 

Clashed in the bloody dust. 

Then Ocnus of Falerii 

Rushed on the Roman Three; 
And Lausulus of Urgo, 

The rover of the sea; 
And Aruns of Volsinium, 

Who slew the great wild boar, 
The great wild boar that had his den 
Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, 
And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, 

Along Albinia's shore. 

Herminius smote down Aruns : 

Lartius laid Ocnus low : 
Right to the heart of Lausulus 

Horatius sent a blow. 
'Lie there,' he cried, 'fell pirate! 

No more, aghast and pale, 
From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 
The track of thy destroying bark. 
No more Campania's hinds shall fly 
To woods and caverns when they spy 

Thy thrice-accursed sail.' 

But now no sound of laughter 

Was heard amongst the foes. 
A wild and wrathful clamour 

From all the vanguard rose. 



192 MACAULAY 

Six spears' lengths from the entrance 

Halted that deep array. 
And for a space no man came forth 

To win the narrow way. 

But hark ! the cry is Astur : 

And lo! the ranks divide; 
And the great Lord of Luna 

Comes with his stately stride. 
Upon his ample shoulders 
Clangs loud the fourfold shield, 
And in his hand he shakes the brand 

Which none but he can wield. 

He smiled on those bold Romans 

A smile serene and high; 
He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 

And scorn was in his eye. 
Quoth he, 'The she-wolf's litter 

Stands savagely at bay : 
But will ye dare to follow, 

If Astur clears the way ? ' 

Then, whirling up his broadsword 

With both hands to the height, 
He rushed against Horatius, 

And smote with all his might. 
With shield and blade Horatius 

Right deftly turned the blow. 
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; 

It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh : 
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 

To see the red blood flow. 



MACAULAY 193 

He reeled, and on Herminius 

He leaned one breathing-space; 
Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, 

Sprang right at Astur's face. 
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet. 

So fierce a thrust he sped 
The good sword stood a handbreadth out 

Behind the Tuscan's head. 

And the great Lord of Luna 

Fell at that deadly stroke, 
As falls on Mount Alvernus 

A thunder-smitten oak : 
Far o'er the crashing forest 

The giant arms lie spread; 
And the pale augurs, muttering low, 

Gaze on the blasted head. 

On Astur's throat Horatius 

Right firmly pressed his heel. 
And thrice and four times tugged amain, 

Ere he wrenched out the steel. 
'And see,' he cried, 'the welcome, 

Fair guests, that waits you here ! 
What noble Lucumo comes next 

To taste our Roman cheer? ' 

But at his haughty challenge 

A sullen murmur ran. 
Mingled of wrath and shame and dread. 

Along that glittering van. 



194 MACAULAY 

There lacked not men of prowess, 

Nor men of lordly race; 
For all Etruria's noblest 

Were round the fatal place. 

But all Etruria's noblest 

Felt their hearts sink to see 
On the earth the bloody corpses, 

In the path the dauntless Three : 
And, from the ghastly entrance 

Where those bold Romans stood. 
All shrank, like boys who unaware. 
Ranging the woods to start a hare. 
Come to the mouth of the dark lair 
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 

Lies amidst bones and blood. 

Was none who would be foremost 

To lead such dire attack; 
But those behind cried 'Forward! ' 

And those before cried 'Back! ' 
And backward now and forward 

Wavers the deep array; 
And on the tossing sea of steel, 

To and fro the standards reel; 
And the victorious trumpet-peal 

Dies fitfully away. 

Yet one man for one moment 
Strode out before the crowd; 

Well known was he to all the Three, 
And they gave him greeting loud. 



MACAULAY 195 

'Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! 

Now welcome to thy home ! 
Why dost thou stay, and turn away? 

Here lies the road to Rome.' 

Thrice looked he at the city; 

Thrice looked he at the dead; 
And thrice came on in fury, 

And thrice turned back in dread : 
And, white with fear and hatred. 

Scowled at the narrow way 
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 

The bravest Tuscans lay. 

But meanwhile axe and lever 

Have manfully been plied; 
And now the bridge hangs tottering 

Above the boiling tide. 
'Come back, come back, Horatius! ' 

Loud cried the Fathers all, 
'Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! 

Back, ere the ruin fall ! ' 

Back darted Spurius Lartius; 

Herminius darted back : 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet 

They felt the timbers crack. 
But, when they turned their faces. 

And on the farther shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone. 

They would have crossed once more. 



196 MACAU LAY 

But with a crash like thunder 

Fell every loosened beam, 
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 

Lay right athwart the stream : 
And a long shout of triumph 

Rose from the walls of Rome, 
As to the highest turret-tops 

Was splashed the yellow foam. 

And, like a horse unbroken 

When first he feels the rein, 
The furious river struggled hard. 

And tossed his tawny mane; 
And burst the curb, and bounded, 

Rejoicing to be free; 
And whirling down, in fierce career, 
Battlement, and plank, and pier, 

Rushed headlong to the sea. 

FATHER TIHER 

Alone stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind; 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before. 

And the broad flood behind. 
'Down with him! ' cried false Sextus, 

With a smile on his pale face. 
'Now yield thee,' cried Lars Porsena, 

'Now yield thee to our grace.' 

Round turned he, as not deigning 
Those craven ranks to see; 



MACAULAY 197 

Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus nought spake he; 
But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home; 
And he spake to the noble river 

That rolls by the towers of Rome. 

*0 Tiber! father Tiber! 

To whom the Romans pray, 
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, 

Take thou in charge this day ! ' 
So he spake, and speaking sheathed 

The good sword by his side. 
And with his harness on his back 

Plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 

Was heard from either bank; 
But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
With parted lips and straining eyes, 

Stood gazing where he sank; 
And when above the surges 

They saw his crest appear. 
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 

Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

But fiercely ran the current, 

Swollen high by months of rain : 
And fast his blood was flowing; 

And he was sore in pain, 



198 MACAULAY 

And heavy with his armour, 

And spent with changing blows: 
And oft they thought him sinking, 
• But still again he rose. 

Never, I ween, did swimmer, 

In such an evil case, 
Struggle through such a raging flood 

Safe to the landing-place : 
But his limbs were borne up bravely 

By the brave heart within, 
And our good father Tiber 

Bare bravely up his chin. 

'Curse on him! ' quoth false Sextus; 

'Will not the villain drown? 
But for this stay ere close of day 

We should have sacked the town ! ' 
'Heaven help him! ' quoth Lars Porsena, 

'And bring him safe to shore; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 

Was never seen before.' 

And now he feels the bottom ; 

Now on dry earth he stands; 
Now round him throng the Fathers 

To press his gory hands; 
And now with shouts and clapping, 

And noise of weeping loud. 
He enters through the River-C^ate, 

Borne by the joyous crowd. 



MACAU LAY 199 

They gave him of the corn-land, 

That was of public right, 
As much as two strong oxen 

Could plough from morn till night; 
And they made a molten image, 

And set it up on high. 
And there it stands unto this day 

To witness if I lie. 

It stands in the Comitium 

Plain for all folk to see; 
Horatius in his harness. 

Halting upon one knee : 
And underneath is written. 

In letters all of gold. 
How valiantly he kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 

And still his name sounds stirring 

Unto the men of Rome, 
As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 

To charge the Volscian home; 
And wives still pray to Juno 

For boys with hearts as bold 
As his who kept the bridge so well 

In the brave days of old. 

And in the nights of winter, 

When the cold north winds blow, 

And the long howling of the wolves 
Is heard amidst the snow; 



200 MACAULAY 

When round the lonely cottage 
Roars loud the tempest's din, 

And the good logs of Algidus 
Roar louder yet within; 

When the oldest cask is opened, 

And the largest lamp is lit; 
When the chestnuts glow in the embers, 

And the kid turns on the spit; 
When young and old in circle 

Around the firebrands close; 
When the girls are weaving baskets, 

And the lads are shaping bows; 

When the goodman mends his armour 

And trims his helmet's plume; 
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily 

Goes flashing through the loom; 
With weeping and with laughter 

Still is the story told, 
How well Horatius kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 



LXXXV 

THE ARMADA 

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's 

praise; 
I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in 

ancient days. 



MACAU LAY 201 

When that great fleet invincible against her bore 

in vain 
The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of 

Spain. 
It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, 
There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to 

Plymouth Bay; 
Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond 

Aurigny's isle. 
At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many 

a mile. 
At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial 

grace; 
And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close 

in chase. 
Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along 

the wall; 
The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's 

lofty hall; 
Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the 

coast, 
And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland 

many a post. 
With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff 

comes,; 
Behind him march the halberdiers; before him 

sound the drums; 
His yeomen round the market cross make clear an 

ample space; 
For there behoves him to set up the standard of 

Her Grace. 



202 MACAULAY 

And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance 

the bells, 
As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon 

swells. 
Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, 
And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies 

down ! 
So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that 

famed Picard field, 
Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Ccesar's 

eagle shield. 
So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned 

to bay, 
And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely 

hunters lay. 
Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight : ho ! scatter 

flowers, fair maids: 
Ho ! gunners, fire a loud salute : ho ! gallants, draw 

your blades : 
Thou sun, shine on her joyously: ye breezes, waft 

her wide; 
Our glorious semper eadem, the banner of our pride. 

The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's 

massy fold; 
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty 

scroll of gold; 
Night sank upon the dusky beach and on the 

purple sea, 
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er 

again shall be. 



MACAULAY 203 

From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to 

Milford Bay, 
That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; 
For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war- 
flame spread. 
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it shone on 

Beachy Head. 
Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each 

southern shire, 
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling 

points of fire. 
The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering 

waves : 
The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's 

sunless caves ! 
O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the 

fiery herald flew : 
He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers 

of Beaulieu. 
Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out 

from Bristol town. 
And ere the day three hundred horse had met on 

Clifton down; 
The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into 

the night. 
And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of 

blood-red light: 
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like 

silence broke. 
And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city 

woke. 



204 MACAULAY 

At once on all her stately gates arose the answering 

fires; 
At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling 

spires; 
From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the 

voice of fear; 
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a 

louder cheer; 
And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of 

hurrying feet, 
And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed 

down each roaring street ; 
And broader still became the blaze, and louder still 

the din, 
As fast from every village round the horse came 

spurring in. 
And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the 

warlike errand went, 
And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant 

squires of Kent. 
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those 

bright couriers forth ; 
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they 

started for the north ; 
And on, and on, without a pause, untired they 

bounded still : 
All night from tower to tower they sprang; they 

sprang from hill to hill : 
Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's 

rocky dales, 
Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills 

of Wales, 



MACAULAY 205 

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's 

lonely height, 
Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's 

crest of light, 
Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's 

stately fane. 
And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the 

boundless plain; 
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln 

sent, 
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale 

of Trent; 
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt' s 

embattled pile, 
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers 

of Carlisle. 

LXXXVI 

THE LAST BUCCANEER 

The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, 

The sky was black and drear. 
When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship 
without a name 

Alongside the last Buccaneer. 

'Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a 
gale. 

When all others drive bare on the seas? 
Say, come ye from the shore of the holy Salvador, 

Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees? ' 



206 MACAULAY 

'From a shore no search hath found, from a gulf no 
line can sound, 
Without rudder or needle we steer; 
Above, below, our bark dies the sea-fowl and the 
shark, 
As we fly by the last Buccaneer. 

To-night there shall be heard on the rocks of 
Cape de Verde 
A loud crash and a louder roar; 
And to-morrow shall the deep with a heavy moan- 
ing sweep 
The corpses and wreck to the shore.' 

The stately ship of Clyde securely now may ride 

In the breath of the citron shades; 
And Severn's towering mast securely now hies fast, 

Through the seas of the balmy Trades. 

From St. Jago's wealthy port, from Havannah's royal 
fort. 

The seaman goes forth without fear; 
For since that stormy night not a mortal hath had sight 

Of the flag of the last Buccaneer. 

LXXXVII 

A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH 

To my true king I offered free from stain 
Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. 
For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away. 
And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. 



HAWKER 207 

For him I languished in a foreign clime, 
Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime; 
Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, 
And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; 
Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep. 
Each morning started from the dream to weep; 
Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave 
The resting-place I asked — an early grave. 
Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, 
From that proud country which was once mine own, 
By those white cliffs I never more must see, 
By that dear language which I speak like thee, 
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear 
O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here. 

Macanlay. 

LXXXVIII 

THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN 

A GOOD sword and a trusty hand ! 

A merry heart and true ! 
King James's men shall understand 

What Cornish lads can do. 

And have they fixed the where and when? 

And shall Trelawny die? 
Here's twenty thousand Cornish men 

Will know the reason why ! 

Out spake their captain brave and bold, 

A merry wight was he : 
'If London Tower were Michael's hold, 

We'll set Trelawny free ! 



208 LONGFELLOW 

We'll cross the Tamar, land to land, 

The Severn is no stay, 
With "one and all," and hand in hand, 

And who shall bid us nay? 

And when we come to London Wall, 

A pleasant sight to view. 
Come forth ! come forth ! ye cowards all, 

Here's men as good as you. 

Trelawny he's in keep and hold, 

Trelawny he may die; 
But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold 

Will know the reason why ! ' 

Hawker, 

LXXXIX 

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP 

THE MODEL 

'Build me straight, O worthy Master! 

Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! ' 

The merchant's word 

Delighted the Master heard; 

For his heart was in his work, and the heart 

Giveth grace unto every Art. 

A quiet smile played round his lips. 

As the eddies and dimples of the tide 

Play round the bows of ships, 

That steadily at anchor ride. 



LONGFELLOW 209 

And with a voice tliat was full of glee, 
He answered, 'Ere long we will launch 
A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, 
As ever weathered a wintry sea ! ' 

And first with nicest skill and art. 

Perfect and finished in every part, 

A little model the Master wrought. 

Which should be to the larger plan 

What the child is to the man, 

Its counterpart in miniature; 

That with a hand more swift and sure 

The greater labour might be brought 

To answer to his inward thought. 

And as he laboured, his mind ran o'er 

The various ships that were built of yore, 

And above them all, and strangest of all. 

Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 

Whose picture was hanging on the wall. 

With bows and stern raised high in air, 

And balconies hanging here and there, 

And signal lanterns and flags afloat. 

And eight round towers, like those that frown 

From some old castle, looking down 

Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 

And he said with a smile, 'Our ship, I wis, 

Shall be of another form than this ! ' 

It was of another form, indeed; 
Built for freight, and yet for speed, 
A beautiful and gallant craft; 



210 LONGFELLOW 

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, 
Pressing down upon sail and mast, 
Might not the sharp bows overwhelm; 
Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 
With graceful curve and slow degrees, 
That she might be docile to the helm. 
And that the currents of parted seas, 
Closing behind, with mighty force, 
Might aid and not impede her course. 

THE BUILDERS 

In the ship-yard stood the Master, 

With the model of the vessel, 
That should laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! 

Covering many a rood of ground. 

Lay the timber piled around; 

Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, 

And scattered here and there, with these, 

The knarred and crooked cedar knees; 

Brought from regions far away. 

From Pascagoula's sunny bay. 

And the banks of the roaring Roanoke ! 

Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is 

To note how many wheels of toil 

One thought, one word, can set in motion ! 

There's not a ship that sails the ocean. 

But every climate, every soil. 

Must bring its tribute, great or small, 

And help to build the wooden wall ! 



LONGFELLOW 211 

The sun was rising o'er the sea, 
And long the level shadows lay, 
As if they, too, the beams would be 
Of some great, airy argosy, 
Tramed and launched in a single day. 
That silent architect, the sun. 
Had hewn and laid them every one, 
Ere the work of man was yet begun. 
Beside the Master, when he spoke, 
A youth, against an anchor leaning. 
Listened to catch his slightest meaning. 
Only the long waves, as they broke 
In ripples on the pebbly beach. 
Interrupted the old man's speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth, 

The old man and the fiery youth ! 

The old man, in whose busy brain 

Many a ship that sailed the main 

Was modelled o'er and o'er again; — 

The fiery youth, who was to be 

The heir of his dexterity. 

The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand. 

When he had built and launched from land 

What the elder head had planned. 

'Thus,' said he, 'will we build this ship! 
Lay square the blocks upon the slip, 
And follow well this plan of mine. 
Choose the timbers with greatest care; 
Of all that is unsound beware; 



212 LONGFELLOW 

For only what is sound and strong 
To this vessel shall belong. 
Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 
Here together shall combine. 
A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, 
And the Union be her name ! 
For the day that gives her to the sea 
Shall give my daughter unto thee ! ' 

The Master's word 

Enraptured the young man heard; 

And as he turned his face aside, 

With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, 

Standing before 

Her father's door. 

He saw the form of his promised bride. 

The sun shone on her golden hair, 

And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, 

With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. 

Like a beauteous barge was she. 

Still at rest on the sandy beach. 

Just beyond the billow's reach; 

But he 

Was the restless, seething, stormy sea! 

Ah ! how skilful grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love's command! 
It is the heart, and not the brain. 
That to the highest doth attain, 
And he who followeth Love's behest 
Far exceedeth all the rest! 



LONGFELLOW 213 

Thus with the rising of the sun 

Was the noble task begun, 

And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds 

Were heard the intermingled sounds 

Of axes and of mallets, plied 

With vigourous arms on every side; 

Plied so deftly and so well, 

That ere the shadows of evening fell, 

The keel of oak for a noble ship, 

Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong. 

Was lying ready, and stretched along 

The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 

Happy, thrice happy, every one 

Who sees his labour well begun, 

And not perplexed and multiplied, 

By idly waiting for time and tide ! 

And when the hot, long day was o'er, 

The young man at the Master's door 

Sat with the maiden calm and still. 

And within the porch, a little more 

Removed beyond the evening chill, 

The father sat, and told them tales 

Of wrecks in the great September gales, 

Of pirates upon the Spanish Main, 

And ships that never came back again; 

The chance and change of a sailor's life, 

Want and plenty, rest and strife. 

His roving fancy, like the wind, 

That nothing can stay and nothing can bind; 

And the magic charm of foreign lands, 

With shadows of palms and shining sands, 



211 LONGFELLOW 

Where the tumbling surf, 
O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 
Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 
A^ he lies alone and asleep on the turf. 

And the trembling maiden held her breath 

At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea. 

With all its terror and mystery, 

The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, 

That divides and yet unites mankind ! 

And whenever the old man paused, a gleam 

From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume 

The silent group in the twilight gloom, 

And thoughtful faces, as in a dream; 

And for a moment one might mark 

What had been hidden by the dark, 

That the head of the maiden lay at rest, 

Tenderly, on the young man's breast! 

IN THE SHIP-YARD 

Day by day the vessel grew, 
With timbers fashioned strong and true, 
Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, 
Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 
A skeleton ship rose up to view ! 
And round the bows and along the side 
The heavy hammers and mallets plied. 
Till after many a week, at length. 
Wonderful for form and strength. 
Sublime in its enormous bulk, 
Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk ! 



LONGFELLOW 215 

And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing, 

Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 

Caldron that glowed, 

And overflowed 

With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. 

And amid the clamours 

Of clattering hammers, 

He who listened heard now and then 

The song of the Master and his men : — 

'Build me straight, O worthy Master, 
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 

That shall laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! ' 

With oaken brace and copper band. 

Lay the rudder on the sand. 

That, like a thought, should have control 

Over the movement of the whole; 

And near it the anchor, whose giant hand 

Would reach down and grapple with the land, 

And immovable and fast 

Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast ! 

And at the bows an image stood. 

By a cunning artist carved in wood. 

With robes of white, that far behind 

Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 

It was not shaped in a classic mould, 

Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 

Or Naiad rising from the water, 

But modelled from the Master's daughter! 



216 LONGFELLOW 

On many a dreary and misty night 

'Twill be seen by the rays of the signal light, 

Speeding along through the rain and the dark, 

Li-ke a ghost in its snow-white sark, 

The pilot of some phantom bark. 

Guiding the vessel in its flight 

By a path none other knows aright. 

Behold, at last. 

Each tall and tapering mast 

Is swung into its place; 

Shrouds and stays 

Holding it firm and fast! 

Long ago, 

In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 

When upon mountain and plain 

Lay the snow. 

They fell — those lordly pines ! 

Those grand, majestic pines! 

'Mid shouts and cheers 

The jaded steers, 

Panting beneath the goad, 

Dragged down the weary, winding road 

Those captive kings so straight and tall, 

To be shorn of their streaming hair 

And, naked and bare. 

To feel the stress and the strain 

Of the wind and the reeling main, 

Whose roar 

Would remind them for evermore 

Of their native forest they should not see again. 



LONGFELLOW 217 

And everywhere 
The slender, graceful spars 
Poise aloft in the air, 
And at the mast head. 
White, blue, and red, 
A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 
Ah ! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, 
In foreign harbours shall behold 
That flag unrolled, 
'Twill be as a friendly hand 
Stretched out from his native land. 
Filling his heart with memories sweet and end- 
less. 



THE TWO BRIDALS 

All is finished ! and at length 

Has come the bridal day 

Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 

With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 

And o'er the bay. 

Slowly, in all his splendours dight, 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old, 

Centuries old. 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 

Paces restless to and fro 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest; 

And far and wide, 



218 LONGFELLOW 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands. 

Decked with flags and streamers gay 

In honour of her marriage day, 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending. 

Round her like a veil descending. 

Ready to be 

The bride of the grey, old sea. 

On the deck another bride 
Is standing by her lover's side. 
Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 
Like the shadows cast by clouds. 
Broken by many a sunny fleck. 
Fall around them on the deck. 

The prayer is said, 

The service read, 

The joyous bridegroom bows his head, 

And in tears the good old Master 

Shakes the brown hand of his son, 

Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 

In silence, for he cannot speak. 

And ever faster 

Down his own the tears begin to run. 

The worthy pastor — 

The shepherd of that wandering flock, 



LONGFELLOW 210 

That has the ocean for its wold, 

That has the vessel for its fold, 

Leaping ever from rock to rock — 

Spake, with accents mild and clear, 

Words of warning, words of cheer, 

But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 

He knew the chart. 

Of the sailor's heart, 

All its pleasures and its griefs. 

All its shallows and rocky reefs, 

All those secret currents that flow 

With such resistless undertow, 

And lift and drift with terrible force, 

The will from its moorings and its course. 

Therefore he spake, and thus said he : 

'Like unto ships far off at sea. 

Outward or homeward bound, are we. 

Before, behind, and all around, 

Floats and swings the horizon's bound. 

Seems at its distant rim to rise 

And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 

And then again to turn and sink, 

As if we could slide from its outer brink. 

Ah ! it is not the sea, 

It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, 

But ourselves 

That rock and rise 

With endless and uneasy motion, 

Now touching the very skies, 

Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 



220 LONGFELLOW 

Ah ! if our souls but poise and swing 
Like the compass in its brazen ring, 
Ever level, and ever true 
To'-the toil and the task we have to do, 
We shall sail securely, and safely reach 
The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 
The sights we see, and the sounds Vv-e hear, 
Will be those of joy and not of fear! ' 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard. 

All around them and below. 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs ! 

She starts — she moves — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous bound, 

She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 

There rose a shout, prolonged and loud. 

That to the ocean seemed to say, — 

* Take her, O bridegroom, old and grey, 

Take her to thy protecting arms. 

With all her youth and all her charms ! ' 

How beautiful she is ! How fair 
She lies within those arms, that press 



LONGFELLOW 221 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care ! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer ! 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry v/ave and gust ; 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State ! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 
Humanity with all its fears, 
With all the hopes of future years, 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
We know what Master laid thy keel. 
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel. 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope. 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
In what a forge and what a heat 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 
Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
'Tis of the wave and not the rock ; 
'Tis but the flapping of the sail, 



222 LONGFELLOW 

And not a rent made by the gale ! 
In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 
In spite of false lights on the shore, 
5ail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 
Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 



LONGFELLOW 223 

xc 
THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE 

Othere, the old sea-captain, 

Who dwelt in Helgoland, 
To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, 
Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth. 

Which he held in his brown right hand. 

His figure was tall and stately, 
Like a boy's his eye appeared; 

His hair was yellow as hay. 

But threads of a silvery grey 
Gleamed in his tawny beard. 

Hearty and hale was Othere, 

His cheek had the colour of oak; 

With a kind of laugh in his speech, 

Like the sea-tide on a beach, 
As unto the king he spoke. 

And Alfred, King of the Saxons, 

Had a book upon his knees. 
And wrote down the wondrous tale 
Of him who was first to sail 

Into the Arctic seas. 

'So far I live to the northward. 

No man lives north of me; 
To the east are wild mountain-chains, 
And beyond them meres and plains; 

To the westward all is sea. 



224 LONGFELLOW 

So far I live to the northward, 

From the harbour of Skeringes-hale, 

If you only sailed by day 
., With a fair wind all the way, 

More than a month would you sail. 

I own six hundred reindeer, 

With sheep and swine beside; 
I have tribute from the Finns, 
Whalebone and reindeer-skins. 
And ropes of walrus-hide. 

I ploughed the land with horses, 
But my heart was ill at ease. 

For the old seafaring men 

Came to me now and then. 

With their sagas of the seas; — 

Of Iceland and of Greenland, 
And the stormy Hebrides, 

And the undiscovered deep; — 

I could not eat nor sleep 
For thinking of those seas. 

To the northward stretched the desert, 

How far I fain would know; 
So at last I sallied forth. 
And three days sailed due north, 
As far as the whale-ships go. 

To the west of me was the ocean, 
To the right the desolate shore, 
But I did not slacken sail 
For the walrus or the whale. 
Till after three days more. 



LONGFELLOW 225 

The days grew longer and longer, 

Till they became as one, 
And southward through the haze 
I saw the sullen blaze 

Of the red midnight sun. 

And then uprose before me, 

Upon the water's edge, 
The huge and haggard shape 
Of that unknown North Cape, 

Whose form is like a Avedge. 

The sea was rough and stormy. 

The tempest howled and wailed, 
And the sea-fog, like a ghost, 
Haunted that dreary coast, 

But onward still I sailed. 

Four days I steered to eastward. 

Four days without a night: 
Round in a fiery ring 
Went the great sun, O King, 

With red and lurid light.' 

Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, 

Ceased writing for a while; 
And raised his eyes from his book, 
With a strange and puzzled look. 

And an incredulous smile. 

But Othere, the old sea-captain. 

He neither paused nor stirred, 
Till the King listened, and then 
Once more took up his pen. 

And wrote down every word. 



226 LONGFELLOW 

'And now the land,' said Othere, 
'Bent southward suddenly, 

And I followed the curving shore, 
. And ever southward bore 
Into a naiTieless sea. 

And there we hunted the walrus, 
The narwhale, and the seal; 

Ha ! 'twas a noble game ! 

And like the lightning's flame 
Flew our harpoons of steel. 

There were six of us all together, 

Norsemen of Helgoland; 
In two days and no more 
We killed of them threescore. 

And dragged them to the strand.' 

Here Alfred, the Truth-Teller, 

Suddenly closed his book, 
And lifted his blue eyes, 
With doubt and strange surmise 
Depicted in their look. 

And Othere, the old sea-captain. 

Stared at him wild and weird, 

Then smiled till his shining teeth 

Gleamed white from underneath 

His tawny, quivering beard. 

And to the King of the Saxons, 

In witness of the truth, 
Raising his noble head. 
He stretched his brown hand, and said, 

'Behold this walrus-tooth! ' 



LONGFELLOW 227 

xci 

THE CUMBERLAND 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 

On board of the CumberLand, sloop of war; 
And at times from the fortress across the bay 
The alarum of drums swept past, 
Or a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 

Then far away to the south uprose 

A little feather of snow-white smoke, 
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
Was steadily steering its course 
To try the force 
Of our ribs of oak. 

Down upon us heavily runs, 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort; 
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, 
And leaps the terrible death. 
With fiery breath. 
From each open port. 

We are not idle, but send her straight 

Defiance back in a full broadside! 
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 

'Strike your flag! ' the rebel cries, 

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
'Never! ' our gallant Morris replies; 



228 LONGFELLOW 

'It is better to sink than to yield ! ' 
And the whole air pealed 
With the cheers of our men. 

Th"fen, like a kraken huge and black, 

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! 
Down went the Cumberland all a wreck, 
With a sudden shudder of death, 
And the cannon's breath 
For her dying gasp. 

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 

Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. 
Lord, how beautiful was thy day ! 
Every waft of the air 
Was a whisper of prayer. 
Or a dirge for the dead. 

Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas. 

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream ! 
Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, 
I'hy flag that is rent in twain 
Shall be one again, 
And without a seam ! 

XCII 

A DUTCH PICTURE 

Simon Danz has come home again, 

From cruising about with his buccaneers; 
He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, 
And carried away the Dean of Jaen 
And sold him in Algiers. 



LONGFELLOW 229 

In his house by the Maes, with its roof of tiles 

And weathercocks flying aloft in air, 
There are silver tankards of antique styles, 
Plunder of convent and castle, and piles 
Of carpets rich and rare. 

In his tulip-garden there by the town. 

Overlooking the sluggish stream. 
With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown, 
The old sea-captain, hale and brown, 

Walks in a waking dream. 

A smile in his grey mustachio lurks 

Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain, 

And the listed tulips look like Turks, 

And the silent gardener as he works 
Is changed to the Dean of Jaen. 

The windmills on the outermost 

Verge of the landscape in the haze, 
To him are towers on the Spanish coast 
With whiskered sentinels at their post. 
Though this is the river Maes. 

But when the winter rains begin, 

He sits and smokes by the blazing brands. 
And old seafaring men come in, 
Goat-bearded, grey, and with double chin. 
And rings upon their hands. 

They sit there in the shadow and shine 

Of the flickering fire of the winter night; 
Figures in colour and design 
Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, 
Half darkness and half light. 



230 WHITTIER 

And they talk of their ventures lost or won, 
And their talk is ever and ever the same, 
While they drink the red wine of Tarragon, 
From the cellars of some Spanish Don 
Or convent set on flame. 

Restless at times, with heavy strides 

He paces his parlour to and fro; 
He is like a ship that at anchor rides, 
And swings with the rising and falling tides, 
And tugs at her anchor-tow. 

Voices mysterious far and near, 

Sound of the wind and sound of the sea. 
Are calling and whispering in his ear, 
'Simon Danz ! Why stayest thou here? 
Come forth and follow me ! ' 

So he thinks he shall take to the sea again 
For one more cruise with his buccaneers, 

To singe the beard of the King of Spain, 

And capture another Dean of Jaen 
And sell him in Algiers. 

Longfellow^ 

XCIII 

BARBARA FRTETCHIE 

Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
Clear in the cool September morn, 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 



WHITTIER 231 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde 

On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
\\'hen Lee marched over the mountain wall, 

Over the mountains winding down, 
Horse and foot into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars. 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town, 

She took up the flag the men hauled down; 

In her attic window the staff she set. 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced; the old flag met his sight. 

'Halt! ' — the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 
*Fire! ' — out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash; 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 



232 TENNYSON 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 

She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
■ And shook it forth with a royal will. 

'Shoot, if you must, this old grey head, 
But spare your country's flag,' she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame. 
Over the face of the leader came; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman's deed and word: 

'Who touches a hair of yon grey head 
Dies like a dog! March on! ' he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet : 

All day long that free flag tost 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it well; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Whittier. 

xcrv 

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay. 
And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying 
from far away : 



TENNYSON 233 

' Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty- 
three ! ' 

Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : ' ' Fore God I 
am no coward ; 

But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out 
of gear, 

And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but 
follow quick. 

We are six ships of the line ; can we fight with fifty- 
three ? ' 

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : ' I know you are 

no coward ; 
You fly them for a moment to fight with them 

again. 
But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick 

ashore. 
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my 

Lord Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of 

Spain.' 

So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war 

that day, 
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer 

heaven ; 
But Sir Richard bore in hand all the sick men from 

the land 
Very carefully and slow, 
Men of Bideford in Devon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down below; 
For we brought them all aboard, 



234 TENNYSON 

And they blest him in their pain, that they were not 

left to Spain, 
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of 

the Lord. 

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and 

to fight, 
And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard 

came in sight, 
With his huge sea -castles heaving upon the weather 

bow. 
'Shall we fight or shall we fly? 
Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 
For to fight is but to die ! 
There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be 

set.' 
And Sir Richard said again: 'We be all good English 

men. 
Let us bang those dogs of Seville, the children of the 

devil. 
For I never turned my back upon Don or devil yet.' 

Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a 
hurrah, and so 

The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the 
foe, 

With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety 
sick below; 

For half their fleet to the right and half to the left 
were seen, 

And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea- 
lane between. 



TENNYSON 235 

Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their 

decks and laughed, 
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad 

little craft 
Running on and on, till delayed 
By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen 

hundred tons. 
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning 

tiers of guns, 
Took the breath from our sails, and we stayed. 

And while now the great San Philip hung above us 
like a cloud 

Whence the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud. 

Four galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day, 

And two upon the larboard and two upon the star- 
board lay, 

And the battle thunder broke irom them all. 

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought her- 
self and went. 

Having that within her womb that had left her ill 
content; 

And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought 
us hand to hand, 

For a dozen times they came with their pikes and 
musqueteers. 

And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that 
shakes his ears 

When he leaps from the water to the land. 



236 TENNYSON 

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far 

over the summer sea, 
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and 

the fifty-three. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high- 
built galleons came. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her 

battle-thunder and flame; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back 

with her dead and her shame. 
For some were sunk and many were shattered, and 

so could fight us no more — 
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the 

world before ? 

For he said, 'Fight on! fight on! ' 

Though his vessel was all but a wreck; 

And it chanced that, when half of the short summer 

night was gone. 
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck. 
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly 

dead. 
And himself he was wounded again in the side and 

the head. 
And he said, 'Fight on! fight on! ' 

And the night went down and the sun smiled out 

far over the summer sea. 
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us 

all in a ring; 
But they dared not touch us again, for they feared 

that we still could sting, 



TENNYSON 237 

So they watched what the end would be. 

And we had not fought them in vain, 

But in perilous plight v/ere we, 

Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 

And half of the rest of us maimed for life 

In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate 

strife; 
And the sick men down in the hold were most of 

them stark and cold. 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the 

powder was all of it spent; 
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the 

side; 

But Sir Richard cried in his English pride : 

*We have fought such a fight for a day and a night 

As may never be fought again ! 

We have one great glory, my men ! 

And a day less or more 

At sea or ashore. 

We die — does it matter when? 

Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink her, split 

her in twain ! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of 

Spain !' 

And the gunner said, 'Ay, ay,' but the seamen made 

reply : 
'We have children, we have wives, 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to 

let us go; 



238 TENNYSON 

We shall live to fight again and to strike another 

blow.' 
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the 
v foe. 

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore 

him then, 
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard 

caught at last, 
And they praised him to his face with their courtly 

foreign grace; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: 
*I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant 

man and true; 
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die ! ' 
And he fell upon their decks and he died. 

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant 

and true, 
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so 

cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship and his 

English few; 
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they 

knew, 
But they sank his body with honour down into the 

deep, 
And they manned the Revenge with a swarthier alien 

crew, 
And away she sailed with her loss and longed for 

her ov/n; 



TENNYSON 239 

When a wind from the lands they had ruined awoke 
from sleep, 

And the water began to heave and the weather to 
moan, 

And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, 

And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earth- 
quake grew, 

Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their 
masts and their flags, 

And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot- 
shattered navy of Spain, 

And the little Revenge herself went down by the 
island crags 

To be lost evermore in the main. 

xcv 
THE HEAVY BRIGADE 

The charge of the gallant three hundred, the Heavy 

Brigade ! 
Down the hill, dov/n the hill, thousands of Russians, 
Thousands of horsemen, drew to the valley — and 

stayed; 
For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hundred were riding 

by 
When the points of the Russian lances arose in the 

sky; 
And he called, 'Left wheel into line!' and they 

wheeled and obeyed. 
Then he looked at the host that had halted he knew 

not why, 



240 TENNYSON 

And he turned half round, and he bad his trumpeter 

sound 
To the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he waved 

V his blade 
To the gallant three hundred whose glory will never 

die — 
'Follow,' and up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, 
Followed the Heavy Brigade. 

The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might 

of the fight! 
Thousands of horsemen had gathered there on the 

height. 
With a wing pushed out to the left and a wing to 

the right, 
And who shall escape if they close? but he dashed 

up alone 
Through the great grey slope of men, 
Swayed his sabre, and held his own 
Like an Englishman there and then; 
All in a moment followed with force 
Three that were next in their fiery course, 
Wedged themselves in between horse and horse. 
Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had 

made — 
Four amid thousands! and up the hill, up the hill, 
Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the Heavy 

Brigade. 

Fell like a cannon-shot, 
Burst like a thunderbolt, 
Crashed like a hurricane, 



TENNYSON 211 

Broke through the mass from below, 
Drove through the midst of the foe, 
Phmged up and down, to and fro, 
Rode flashing blow upon blow. 
Brave Inniskillens and Greys 
Whirling their sabres in circles of light! 
And some of us, all in amaze, 
Who v/ere held for a while from the fight, 
And were only standing at gaze. 
When the dark-muffled Russian crowd 
Folded its wings from the left and the right, 
And rolled them around like a cloud, — 
O mad for the charge and the battle were we, 
When our own good redcoats sank from sight. 
Like drops of blood in a dark grey sea, 
And we turned to each other, whispering, all dismayed, 
'Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett's 
Brigade ! ' 

'Lost one and all' were the words 
Muttered in our dismay; 
But they rode like Victors and Lords 
Through the forest of lances and swords 
In the heart of the Russian hordes, 
They rode, or they stood at bay — 
Struck with the sword-hand and slew, 
Down with the bridle-hand drew 
The foe from the saddle and threw 
Underfoot there in the fray — 
Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock 
In the wave of a stormy day; 



242 DOYLE 

Till suddenly shock upon shock 

Staggered the mass from without, 

Drove it in wild disarray, 

For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout, 

And the foemen surged, and wavered and reeled 

Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of th 

field, 
And over the brow and away. 

Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they 

made! 
Glory to all the three hundred, and all the Brigade ! 

Tennyson, 



XCVI 

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS 

Last night, among his fellov/ roughs, 

He jested, quaffed, and swore; 
A drunken private of the Buffs, 

Who never looked before. 
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, 

He stands in Elgin's place, 
Ambassador from Britain's crown 

And type of all her race. 

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, 

Bewildered, and alone, 
A heart, with English instinct fraught. 

He yet can call his own. 



DOYLE 243 

Ay, tear his body limb from limb, 

Bring cord, or axe, or flame : 
He only knows, that not through him 

Shall England come to shame. 

Far Kentish hop-fields romid him seemed, 

Like dreams, to come and go; 
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed. 

One sheet of living snow; 
The smoke, above his father's door. 

In grey soft eddyings hung : 
Must he then watch it rise no more, 

Doomed by himself, so young? 

Yes, honour calls ! — witn strength like steel 

He put the vision by. 
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel; 

An English lad must die. 
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, 

With knee to man unbent. 
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, 

To his red grave he went. 

Vain, mightiest fleets of iron frames; 

Vain, those all-shattering guns; 
Unless proud England keep, untamed. 

The strong heart of her sons. 
So, let his name through Europe ring — 

A man of mean estate. 
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, 

Because his soul was great. 



244 DOYLE 

XCVII 

THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR 

Eleven men of England 

A breastwork charged in vain; 
Eleven men of England 

Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain. 
Slain; but of foes that guarded 

Their rock-built fortress well, 
Some twenty had been mastered, 

When the last soldier fell. 

Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous way 

Across the sand-waves of the desert sea, 
Then flashed at once, on each iierce clan, dismay, 

Lord of their wild Truckee. 
These missed the glen to which their steps were bent, 

Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard, 
And, in that glorious error, calmly w-ent 
To death without a word. 

The robber-chief mused deeply 

Above those daring dead; 
'Bring here,' at length he shouted, 

'Bring quick, the battle thread. 
Let Eblis blast for ever 

Their souls, if Allah will : 
But WE must keep unbroken 

The old rules of the Hill. 

Before the Ghiznee tiger 

Leapt forth to burn and slay; 



DOYLE 245 

Before the holy Prophet 

Taught our grim tribes to pray; 

Before Secunder's lances 

Pierced through each Indian glen; 

The mountain laws of honour 
Were framed for fearless men. 

Still, when a chief dies bravely, 

We bind with green ojie wrist — 
Green for the brave, for heroes 

One crimson thread we twist. 
Say ye, Oh gallant Hillmen, 

For these, whose life has fled, 
Which is the fitting colour, 

The green one or the red ? ' 

'Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear 

Their green reward,' each noble savage said; 
'To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall 
tear, 
Who dares deny the red?' 

Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right, 

Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came; 
Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height 
Rolled back its loud acclaim. 

Once more the chief gazed keenly 

Down on those daring dead; 
From his good sword their heart's blood 

Crept to that crimson thread. 
Once more he cried, 'The judgment, 

Good friends, is wise and true. 



246 DOYLE 

But though the red be given, 
Have we not more to do? 

These were not stirred by anger, 

Nor yet by lust made bold; 
Renown they thought above them, 

Nor did they look for gold. 
To them their leader's signal 

Was as the voice of God : 
Unmoved, and uncomplaining, 

The path it showed they trod. 

As, without sound or struggle, 

The stars unhurrying march. 
Where Allah's finger guides them, 

Through yonder purple arch, 
These Franks, sublimely silent, 

Without a quickened breath, 
Went in the strength of duty 

Straight to their goal of death. 

*If I were now to ask you 

To name our bravest man, 
Ye all at once would answer, 

They called him Mehrab Khan. 
He sleeps among his fathers, 

Dear to our native land. 
With the bright mark he bled for 

Firm round his faithful hand. 

'The songs they sing of Rustum 
Fill all the past with light; 

If truth be in their music, 
He was a noble knight. 



DOYLE 247 

But were those heroes living 

And strong for battle still, 
Would Mehrad Khan or Rustum 

Have climbed, like these, the hill? ' 

And they replied, 'Though Mehrab Khan was brave, 

As chief, he chose himself what risks to run; 
Prince Rustum lied, his forfeit life to save, 
Which these had never done.' 

'Enough! ' he shouted fiercely; 

Doomed though they be to hell. 
Bind fast the crimson trophy 

Round BOTH wrists — bind it well. 
Who knows but that great Allah 

May grudge such matchless men, 
With none so decked in heaven, 

To the fiends' flaming den? ' 

Then all those gallant robbers 

Shouted a stern 'Amen! ' 
They raised the slaughtered sergeant, 

They raised his mangled ten. 
And when we found their bodies 

Left bleaching in the wind. 
Around both wrists in glory 

That crimson thread was twined. 

Then Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core, 

Rung, like an echo, to that knightly deed, 
He bade its memory live for evermore, 
That those who run may read. 



248 BROWNING 

XCVIII 

HOME THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA 

NoB^Y, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the North-west 
died away; 

Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into 
Cadiz Bay; 

Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar 
lay; 

In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibral- 
tar grand and grey; 

'Here and here did England help me: how can I 
help England?' — say, 

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise 
and pray. 

While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. 

xcix 
HERVfi KIEL 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred 

ninety-two. 
Did the English fight the French, — woe to 

France ! 
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the 

blue. 
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of 

sharks pursue. 
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the 

Ranee, 
With the English fleet in view. 



BROWNING 249 

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor 
in full chase; 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, 
Damfreville; 
Close on him fled, great and small, 
Twenty-two good ships in all; 
And they signalled to the place 
* Help the winners of a race ! 

Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick — 

or, quicker still, 
Here's the English can and will ! ' 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt 
on board; 
'Why, what hope or chance have ships like these 
to pass ? ' laughed they : 
'Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage 

scarred and scored. 
Shall the Formidable here with her twelve and 
eighty guns 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single 
narrow way, 
Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty 
tons. 
And with flow at full beside? 
Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring? Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs, 
Not a ship will leave the bay! ' 

Then was called a council straight. 
Brief and bitter the debate : 



250 BROWNING 

'Here's the English at our heels; would you have 

them take in tow 
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern 

• and bow, 
For a prize to Plymouth Sound? 
Better run the ships aground ! ' 

(Ended Damfreville his speech). 
Not a minute more to wait! 
'Let the Captains all and each 
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on 
the beach ! 
France must undergo her fate. 

Give the word ! ' But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard; 

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid 
all these 
— A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate — first, 
second, third? 
No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete ! 
But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville 
for the fleet, 
A poor coasting-pilot he, Herv6 Riel the Croisickese. 

And, 'What mockery or malice have we here?' 

cries Herve Riel: 
'Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, 

fools, or rogues? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the 

soundings, tell 
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 



BROWNING 251 

'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river 
disembogues? 
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the 
lying's for? 
Morn and eve, night and day, 
Have I piloted your bay, 
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of 
Solidor. 

Burn the fleet and niin France? That were 
worse than fifty Hogues ! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! Sirs, be- 
lieve me there's a way! 
Only let me lead the line, 

Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this Formidable clear, 
Make the others follow mine. 

And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I 
know well. 
Right to Solidor past Greve, 

And there lay them safe and sound; 
And if one ship misbehave, 

— Keel so much as grate the ground, 
Why, I've nothing but my life, — here's my head!' 
cries Herve Riel. 

Not a minute more to wait. 

'Steer us in, then, small and great! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron! ' 
cried his chief, 
'Captains, give the sailor place! 

He is Admiral, in brief. 



252 BROWNING 

Still the north-wind, by God's grace! 

See the noble fellow's face, 

As the big ship with a bound. 

Cleats the entry like a hound, 

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide 

seas profound ! 
See, safe thro' shoal and rock, 
How they follow in a flock, 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates 

the ground, 
Not a spar that cornes to grief ! 
The peril, see, is past. 
All are harboured to the last. 
And juGt as Herve Riel hollas 'Anchor!' — sure as 

fate 
Up the English come, too late! 

So, the storm subsides to calm: 

They see the green trees wave 

On the o'erlooking Greve, 
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 
'Just our rapture to enhance. 

Let the English rake the bay. 
Gnash their teeth and glare askance. 

As they cannonade away I 
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the 

Ranee ! ' 
How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's coun- 
tenance ! 
Out burst all with one accord, 

'This is Paradise for Hell! 



BROWNING 255 

Let France, let France's King 
Thank the man that did the thing! ' 
^Vhat a shout, and all one word, 

'Herv^ Riel!' 
As he stepped in front once more. 
Not a symptom of surprise 
In the frank blue Breton eyes, 
Just the same man as before. 

Then said Damfreville, 'My friend, 
I must speak out at the end, 

Though I find the speaking hard. 
Praise is deeper than the lips: 
You have saved the King his ships. 

You must name your own reward. 
'Faith our sun was near eclipse ! 
Demand whate'er you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 
Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not 
Damfreville.' 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke. 
As the honest heart laughed through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 
'Since 1 needs must say my say, 

Since on board the duty's done, 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it 
but a run? — 
Since 'tis ask and have, I may — 

Since the others go ashore — 
Come ! A good whole holiday ! 



254 WHITMAN 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the 
Belle Aurore ! ' 
That he asked and that he got, — nothing more. 

Name and deed alike are lost: 
Not a pillar nor a post 

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing smack, 

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to 
wrack 

All that France saved from the fight whence 
England bore the bell. 
Go to Paris : rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank ! 

You shall look long enough ere you come to 

Herve Riel. 

So, for better and for w-orse, 

Herve Riel, accept my verse ! 

In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more 

Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife, the 

Belle Aurore ! 

Browning. 

C 

THE DYING FIREMAN 

I AM the mashed fireman with breast-bone broken. 
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris. 
Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling 
shouts of my comrades. 



WHITMAN 255 

I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels, 
They have cleared the beams away, they tenderly 
lift me forth. 

I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading 

hush is for my sake, 
Painless after all I lie, exhausted but not so unhappy, 
White and beautiful are the faces around me, the 

heads are bared of their fire-caps, 
The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches. 

CI 

A SEA-FIGHT 

Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight? 

Would you learn who won by the light of the moon 

and stars? 
List to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the 

sailor told it to me. 

'Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you (said he). 
His was the surly English pluck, and there is no 
tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be; 
Along the lowered eve he came horribly raking us. 

We closed with him, the yards entangled, the 

cannon touched. 
My captain lashed fast with his own hands. 

We had received some eighteen-pound shots under 

the water. 
On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst 

at the first fire, killing all around and blowing 

up overhead. 



256 WHITMAN 

Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark, 

Ten o'clock at night, tlie full moon well up, our 
leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported, 

The- master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in 
the after-hold to give them a chance for them- 
selves. 

The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt 

by the sentinels. 
They see so many strange faces they do not know 

whom to trust. 

Our frigate takes fire, 

The other asks if we demand quarter? 

If our colours are struck and the fighting done? 

Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my 

little captain, 
"We have not struck," he composedly cries, " we have 

just begun our part of the fighting." 

Only three guns are in use. 

One is directed by the captain himself against the 

enemy's main-mast, 
Two well served with grape and canister silence his 

musketry and clear his decks. 

The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, 

especially the main-top. 
They hold out bravely during the whole of the action. 

Not a moment's cease. 

The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats to- 
ward the powder-magazine. 



WHITMAN 257 

One of the pumps had been shot away, it is generally 
thought we are sinking. 

Serene stands the little captain, 

He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low, 
His eyes give more light to us than our battle- 
lanterns. 

Toward twelve, there in the beams of the moon, they 
surrender to us.' 

CII 

BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! 

Beat! beat! drums! — blow! bugles! blow! 
Through the windows — through doors — burst like a 

ruthless force. 
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, 
Into the school where the scholar is studying; 
Leave not the bridegroom quiet — no happiness must 

he have now with his bride. 
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his 

field or gathering his grain. 
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums — so shrill, 

you bugles, blow. 

Beat ! beat ! drums ! — blow ! bugles ! blow ! 

Over the traffic of cities — over the rumble of wheels 

in the streets; 
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the 

houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds. 
No bargainers' bargains by day — no brokers or 

speculators — would they continue? 



258 WHITMAN 

Would the talkers be talking? would the singer 

attempt to sing? 
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case 

V before the judge? 
Then rattle quicker, heavier, drums — you bugles, 

wilder blow. 

Beat! beat! drums! — blow! bugles! blow! 

Make no parley — stop for no expostulation. 

Mind not the timid — mind not the weeper or prayer, 

Mind not the old man beseeching the young man. 

Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's 

entreaties, 
Make even the trestle to shake the dead where they 

lie awaiting the hearses, 
So strong you thump, O terrible drums — so loud, you 

bugles, blow. 

cm 
TWO VETERANS 

The last sunbeam 
Lightly falls from the finished Sabbath, 
On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking 

Down a new-made double grave. 

Lo ! the moon ascending, 
Up from the east the silvery round moon. 
Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom 
moon. 

Immense and silent moon. 



WHITMAN 259 

I see a sad procession, 
And I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, 
All the channels of the city streets they're flooding. 

As with voices and with tears. 

I hear the great drums pounding, 
And the small drums steady whirring, 
And every blow of the great convulsive drums 

Strikes me through and through. 

For the son is brought with the father, 
(In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, 
Two veterans son and father dropt together. 

And the double grave awaits them). 

Now nearer blow the bugles, 
And the, drums strike more convulsive. 
And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded, 

And the strong dead-march emvraps me. 

In the eastern sky up-buoying. 
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, 
('Tis some mother's large transparent face 

In heaven brighter growing). 

O strong dead-march you please me ! 
O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe me ! 
O my soldiers twain ! O my veterans passing to burial ! 

What I have I also give you. 

The moon gives you light. 
And the bugles and the drums give you music, 
And my heart, () my soldiers, my veterans, 

My heart gives you love. 



2G0 KINGSLEY 

crv 
THE PLEASANT ISLE OF AYES 

Oh England is a pleasant place for them that's rich 

and high, 
But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; 
And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again 
As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish 

main. 

There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift 

and stout, 
All furnished well with small arms and cannons 

round about; 
And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and 

free 
To choose their valiant captains and obey them 

loyally. 

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his 

hoards of plate and gold. 
Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian 

folk of old; 
Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard 

as stone, 
Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them 

to the bone. 

O the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that 

shone like gold. 
And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to 

behold; 



KINGSLEY 2G1 

And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did 

flee, 
To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea. 

O sweet it was in Avfes to hear the landward 

breeze, 
A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, 
With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to 

the roar 
Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never 

touched the shore. 

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things 

must be ; 
So the King's ships sailed on Aves, and quite put 

down were we. 
All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the 

booms at night; 
And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight. 

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, 
Till, for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young 

thing she died; 
But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, 
And brought me home to England here, to beg 

until I die. 

And now I'm old and going — I'm sure I can't tell 

where ; 
One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse 

off there : 
If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, 
To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again. 



262 KINGSLEY 

cv 
A WELCOME 

Welcome, wild North-easter. 

Shame it is to see 
Odes to every zephyr; 

Ne'er a verse to thee. 
Welcome, black North-easter! 

O'er the German foam; 
O'er the Danish moorlands, 

From thy frozen home. 
Tired we are of summer. 

Tired of gaudy glare, 
Showers soft and steaming, 

Hot and breathless air. 
Tired of listless dreaming, 

Through the lazy day: 
Jovial wind of winter 

Turns us out to play ! 
Sweep the golden reed-beds; 

Crisp the lazy dyke; 
Hunger into madness 

Every plunging pike. 
Fill the lake with wild-fowl; 

Fill the marsh with snipe; 
While on dreary moorlands 

Lonely curlew pipe. 
Through the black fir-forest 

Thunder harsh and dry. 
Shattering down the snow-flakes 

Off the curdled sky. 



KINGSLEY 263 

Hark ! The brave North-easter ! 

Breast-high lies the scent, 
On by holt and headland, 

Over heath and bent. 
Chime, ye dappled darlings, 

Through the sleet and snow. 
Who can over-ride you? 

Let the horses go ! 
Chime, ye dappled darlings, 

Down the roaring blast; 
You shall see a fox die 

Ere an hour be past. 
Go ! and rest to-morrow. 

Hunting in your dreams. 
While our skates are ringing 

O'er the frozen streams. 
Let the luscious South-wind 

Breathe in lovers' sighs, 
While the lazy gallants 

Bask in ladies' eyes. 
What does he but soften 

Heart alike and pen? 
'Tis the hard grey weather 

Breeds hard English men. 
What's the soft South-wester? 

'Tis the ladies' breeze. 
Bringing home their true-loves 

Out of all the seas : 
But the black North-easter, 

Through the snowstorm hurled, 
Drives our English hearts of oak 

Seaward round the world. 



204 YULE 



Come, as came our fathers, 

Heralded by thee. 
Conquering from the eastward, 

Lords by Land and sea. 
Come; and strong within us 

Stir the Vikings' blood; 
Bracing brain and sinew; 

Blow, thou wind of God ! 

Kingsley. 

THE BIRKENHEAD 

Amid the loud ebriety of War, 
With shouts of ' la Republique ' and ' la Gloire,' 
The Vengeur's crew, 'twas said, with flying flag 
And broadside blazing level with the wave 
Went down erect, defiant, to their grave 
Beneath the sea. — 'Twas but a Frenchman's brag, 
Yet Europe rang with it for many a year. 
Now we recount no fable ; Europe, hear ! 
And when they tell thee 'England is a fen 
Corrupt, a kingdom tottering to decay. 
Her nerveless burghers lying an easy prey 
For the first comer, ' tell how the other day 
A crew of half a thousand Englishmen 
Went down into the deep in Simon's Bay! 

Not with the cheer of battle in the throat. 

Or cannon-glare and din to stir their blood. 

But, roused from dreams of home to find their boat 



ARNOLD 265 

Fast sinking, mustered on the deck they stood, 
Biding God's pleasure and their chief's command. 
Calm was the sea, but not less calm that band 
Close ranged upon the poop, with bated breath 
But flinching not though eye to eye with Death ! 
Heroes! 

Who were those Heroes? Veterans steeled 
To face the King of Terrors mid the scaith 
Of many an hurricane and trenched field? 
Far other: weavers from the stocking-frame; 
Boys from the plough; cornets with beardless chin, 
But steeped in honour and in discipline ! 

Weep, Britain, for the Cape whose ill-starred name. 

Long since divorced from Hope suggests but shame. 

Disaster, and thy Captains held at bay 

By naked hordes; but as thou weepest, thank 

Heaven for those undegenerate sons v/ho sank 

Aboard the Birkenhead in Simon's Bay! 

Yule. 

CVII 

APOLLO 

Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts 
Thick breaks the red flame; 
All Etna heaves fiercely 
Her forest-clothed frame. 

Not here, O Apollo ! 
Are haunts meet for thee. 
But, where Helicon breaks down 
In cliff to the sea, 



266 ARNOLD 

Where the moon-silvered inlets 
Send far their light voice 
Up the still vale of Thisbe, 
O speed, and rejoice ! 

On the sward at the cliff-top 
Lie strewn the white flocks. 
On the cliff-side the pigeons 
Roost deep in the rocks. 

In the moonlight the shepherds, 
Soft lulled by the rills, 
Lie wrapt in their blankets 
Asleep on the hills. 

— What forms are these coming 
So white through the gloom? 
What garments out-glistening 
The gold-flowered broom? 

What sweet-breathing presence 
Out-perfumes the thyme? 
What voices enrapture 
The night's balmy prime? — 

'Tis Apollo comes leading 
His choir, the Nine. 
— The leader is fairest. 
But all are divine. 

They are lost in the hollows ! 
They stream up again ! 
What seeks on this mountain 
The glorified train? — 



ARNOLD 267 

They bathe on this mountain, 
In the spring by the road; 
Then on to Olympus, 
Their endless abode, 

— Whose praise do they mention? 
Of what is it told? — 
What will be for ever; 
What was from of old. 

First hymn they the Father 
Of all things; and then. 
The rest of immortals, 
The action of men. 

The day in his hotness, 
The strife with the palm; 
The night in her silence. 
The stars in their calm. 



CVIII 

THE DEATH OF SOHRAB 

THE DUEL 

He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, 
And he too drew his sword; at once they rushed 
Together, as two eagles on one prey 
Come rushing down together from the clouds, 
One from the east, one from the west; their shields 
Dashed with a clang together, and a din 
Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 
Make often in the forest's heart at morn, 



268 ARNOLD 

Of hewing axes, crashing trees — such blows 

Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. 

And you would say that sun and stars took part 

In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud 

Grew suddenly in Heaven, and darkened the sun 

Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose 

Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, 

And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. 

In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone; 

For both the on-looking hosts on either hand 

Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, 

And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 

But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes 

And labouring breath; first Rustum struck the shield 

Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear 

Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin, 

And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan. 

Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum 's helm, 

Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest 

He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume. 

Never till now defiled, sank to the dust; 

And Rustum bowed his head; but then the gloom 

Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, 

And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse, 

Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry; — 

No horse's cry was that, most like the roar 

Of some pained desert-lion, who all day 

Hath trailed the hunter's javelin in his side. 

And comes at night to die upon the sand. 

The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, 

And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. 



ARNOLD 269 

But Sohrab heard, and quailed not, but rushed on, 
And struck again; and again Rustum bowed 
His head; but this time all the blade, like glass, 
Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, 
And in the hand the hilt remained alone. 
Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes 
Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, 
And shouted: Rustum! — Sohrab heard that shout. 
And shrank amazed; back he recoiled one step. 
And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form; 
And then he stood bewildered; and he dropped 
His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. 
He reeled, and staggering back, sank to the ground; 
And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, 
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all 
The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair — 
Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet. 
And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. 

SOHRAB 

Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began: — 
'Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill 
A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, 
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. 
Or else that the great Rustum would come down 
Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move 
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 
And then that all the Tartar host would praise 
Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, 
To glad thy father in his weak old age. 



270 ARNOLD 

Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man ! 
Dearer to the red jackels shalt thou be 
Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.' 

And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied : — 
'Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. 
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man ! 
No ! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. 
For were I matched wdth ten such men as thee. 
And I were that which till to-day I was. 
They should be lying here, I standing there. 
But that beloved name unnerved my arm — 
That name, and something, I confess, in thee, 
Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield 
Fall; and thy spear transfix an unarmed foe. 
And now thou boastest, and insultest my fate. 
But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear : 
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death ! 
My father, whom I seek through all the world. 
He shall avenge my death, and punish thee ! ' 

As when some hunter in the spring hath found 
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest. 
Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake, 
And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, 
And followed her to find her where she fell 
Far off; — anon her mate comes winging back 
From hunting, and a great way off decries 
His huddling young left-sole; at that he checks 
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 
Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she 
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, 



ARNOLD 271 

In some far stony gorge out of his ken, 
A heap of fluttering feathers — never more 
Shall the lake glass her, flying over it; 
Never the black and dripping precipices 
Echo her stormy scream as she sails by — 
As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss, 
So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood 
Over his dying son, and knew him not. 

But, with a cold, incredulous voice he said : 
'What prate is this of fathers and revenge? 
The mighty Rustum never had a son.' 

And with a failing voice Sohrab replied: 
*Ah yes, he had ! and that lost son am I, 
Surely the news will one day reach his ear. 
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long. 
Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here; 
And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap 
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. 
Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son ! 
What will that grief, wiiat will that vengeance be ? 
O could I live, till I that grief had seen ! 
Yet him I pity not so much, but her. 
My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells 
With that old king, her father, who grows grey 
With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. 
Her most I pity, who no more will see 
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, 
With spoils and honour, when the war is done. 
But a dark rumour will be bruited up, 
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear; 
And then will that defenceless woman learn 



272 ARNOLD 

That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more, 
But that in battle with a nameless foe, 
By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain.' 

IHE RECOGNITION 

He spoke, and as he ceased he wept aloud. 
Thinking of her he left, and his own death. 
He spoke; but Rustum listened plunged in thought. 
Nor did he yet believe it was his son 
Who spoke, although he called back names he knew; 
For he had had sure tidings that the babe, 
Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, 
Had been a puny girl, no boy at all — 
So that sad mother sent him word, for fear 
Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms. 
And as he deemed that either Sohrab took, 
By a false boast, the style of Rustum' s son; 
Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. 
So deemed he; yet he listened plunged in thought; 
And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 
Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore 
At the full moon; tears gathered in his eyes; 
For he remembered his own early youth. 
And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn. 
The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries 
A far, bright city, smitten by the sun, 
Through many rolling clouds — so Rustum saw 
His youth; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom; 
And that old king, her father, who loved well 
His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child 
With joy; and all the pleasant life they led. 



ARNOLD 273 

They three, in that long-distant summer-time — 
The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt 
And hound, and morn on those delightful hills 
In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, 
Uf age and looks to be his own dear son. 
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand, 
Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe 
Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, 
Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, 
And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom. 
On the mown, dying grass — so Sohrab lay, 
Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 
And Rustum gazed on him in grief, and said: 

'O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 
Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved : 
Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men 
Have told thee false — thou art not Rustum' s son. 
For Rustum had no son; one child he had — 
But one — a girl; who with her mother now 
Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us — 
Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war. ' 

But Sohrab answered him in wrath; for now 
The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce. 
And he desired to draw forth the steel. 
And let the blood flow free, and so to die — 
But first he would convince his stubborn foe; 
And, rising sternly on one arm, he said : 

'Man, who art thou who dost deny my words? 
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, 
And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. 
I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear 



274 ARNOLD 

That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, 
That she might prick it on the babe she bore.' 

He spoke; and all the blood left Rustum' s cheeks, 
And his knees tottered, and he smote his hand 
Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, 
That the hard iron corselet clanked aloud; 
And to his heart he pressed the other hand, 
And in a hollow voice he spake and said: 

'Sohrab, that were a proof that could not lie! 
If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son.' 

Then with weak hasty fingers Sohrab loosed 
His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, 
And showed a sign in faint vermilion points 
Pricked; as a cunning workman, in I'ekin, 
Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase. 
An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints, 
And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp 
I^ights up his studious forehead and thin hands — 
So delicately pricked the sign appeared 
On Sohrab' s arm, the sign of Rustum's seal. 
It was that griffin, which of old reared Zal, 
Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, 
A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks; 
Him that kind creature found, and reared, and 

loved — 
Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. 
And Sohrab bared that image on his arm. 
And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes. 
And then he touched it with his hand and said: — 

'How sayest thou? Is that sign the proper sign 
Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's? ' 



ARNOLD 



RUKSH THE HORSE 



He spoke ; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood 
Speechless; and then he uttered one sharp cry: 

boy — thy father! — and his voice choked there. 
And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes, 
And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. 
But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast 
His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips, 
And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, 
Trying to call him back to life; and life 

Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, 
And they stood wide with horror; and he seized 
In both his hands the dust which lay around. 
And threw it on his head, and smirched his hair, — 
His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms; 
And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast. 
And his sobs choked him; and he clutched his sword, 
To draw it, and for ever let life out. 
But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands. 
And with a soothing voice he spake, and said: 

' Father, forbear ! for I but meet to-day 
The doom which at my birth was written down 
In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious hand. 
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, 
^Vhen first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too, 

1 know it ! but fate trod these promptings down 
Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged 

The strife, and hurled me on my father's spear. 
But let us speak no more of this ! I find 
My father; let me feel that I have found! 



276 ARNOLD 

Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take 
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, 
And wasli them with thy tears, and say : My son! 
Quick! quick! for numbered are my sands of life. 
And swift; for like the lightning to this field 
I came, and like the wind I go away — 
Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. 
But it was writ in Heaven that this should be.' 

So said he, and his voice released the heart 
Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast 
His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud. 
And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hosts, 
When they saw Rustum' s grief; and Ruksh the 

horse, 
With his head bowing to the ground and mane 
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe 
First to the one, then to the other moved 
His head, as if inquiring what their grief 
Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, 
The big warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand. 
But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said : — 

'Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet 
Should first have rotted on their nimble joints. 
Or ere they brought thy master to this field ! ' 

But Sohrab looked upon the horse and said : 
*Is this, then, Ruksh? How often in past days, 
My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed. 
My terrible father's terrible horse! and said. 
That I should one day find thy lord and thee. 
Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane I 
O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I; 



ARNOLD 277 

For thou hast gone where I shall never go, 

And snuffed the breezes of my father's home. 

And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, 

And seen the river of Helmund, and the Lake 

Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself 

Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, 

Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine. 

And said: O Ruksh! bear Rustum well! — but I 

Have never known my grandsire's furrowed face, 

Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, 

Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream; 

But lodged among my father's foes, and seen 

Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 

Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste. 

And the black Toorkman tents; and only drunk 

The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, 

Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, 

The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream, 

The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.' 

RUSTUM 

Then with a heavy groan, Rustum bewailed : 
* O that its waves were flowing over me ! 
O that I saw its grains of yellow silt 
Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head! ' 

But with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied : — 
'Desire not that, my father! thou must live. 
For some are born to do great deeds, and live, 
As some are born to be obscured, and die. 
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, 



278 ARNOLD 

And reap a second glory in thine age; 
Tliou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 
But come ! thou seest this great host of men 
Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these! 
Let me entreat for them; what have they done? 
They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star. 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
But me thou must bear hence, not send with 

them. 
But carry me with thee to Seistan, 
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me, 
Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy friends. 
And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, 
And heap a stately mound above my bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all. 
That so the passing horseman on the waste 
May see my tomb a great way off, and cry : 
Sohrab, the mighty Rustinii's son, lies here, 
Whom his great father did in ignorance kill ! 
And I be not forgotten in my grave. ' 

And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied : 
'Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, 
So shall it be; for I will burn my tents. 
And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, 
And carry thee away to Seistan, 
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee. 
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. 
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth. 
And heap a stately mound above thy bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all, 
And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. 



ARNOLD 279 

And I will spare thy host; yea, let them go ! 

Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace ! 

What should I do with slaying any more ? 

For would that all whom I have ever slain 

Might be once more alive — my bitterest foes, 

And they who were called champions in their time, 

And through whose death I won that fame I 

have — 
And I were nothing but a common man, 
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown, 
So thou mightest live too, my son, my son ! 
Or rather would that I, even I myself, 
Might notv be lying on this bloody sand. 
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, 
Not thou of mine ! and I might die, not thou; 
And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan; 
And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine; 
And say : O Son, I weep thee not too soi-e. 
For ivillingly, I know, thou fnefst thine end/ 
But now in blood and battles was my youth, 
And full of blood and battles is my age. 
And I shall never end this life of blood.' 

Then at the point of death, Sohrab replied : 
*A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man! 
But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now, 
Not yet ! but thou shalt have it on that day. 
When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, 
Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo 
Returning home over the salt blue sea. 
From laying thy dear master in his grave.' 



280 ARNOLD 



NIGHT 



And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face, and said: 
'Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea! 
Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure.' 

He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him, and took 
The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased 
His wound's imperious anguish; but the blood 
Came welling from the open gash, and life 
Flowed with the stream; — all down his cold white 

side 
The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soiled. 
Like the soiled tissue of white violets 
Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank. 
By children whom their nurses call with haste 
Indoors from the sun's eye; his head dropped low, 
His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay — 
White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps, 
Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame. 
Convulsed him back to life, he opened them. 
And fixed them feebly on his father's face; 
Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his limbs 
Unwillingly the spirit fled away. 
Regretting the warm mansion which it left. 
And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world. 

So, on the bloody. sand, Sohrab lay dead; 
And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak 
Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. 
As those black granite pillars once high-reared 
By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear 
His house, now 'mid their broken flights of steps 



ARNOLD 281 

Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side, 
So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. 

And night came down over the solemn waste, 
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, 
And darkened all; and a cold fog, with night. 
Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose. 
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 
Began to twinkle through the fog; for now 
Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal; 
The Persians took it on the open sands 
Southward, the Tartars by the river marge; 
And Rustum and his son were left alone. 

But the majestic river floated on. 
Out of the mist and hum of that low land. 
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved. 
Rejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian waste, 
Under the solitary moon; — he flowed 
Right for the polar star, past Orgunje, 
Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands begin 
To hem his watery march, and dam his streams. 
And split his currents; that 'for many a league 
The shorn and parcelled Oxus strains along 
Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles — 
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had 
In his high mountain cradle in Pamere 
A foiled circuitous wanderer — till at last 
The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and wide 
His luminous home of waters opens, bright 
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars 
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 



282 ARNOLD 



CDC 



FLEE FRO' THE PRESS 

O BORN in days when wits were fresh and clear 
And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; 
Before this strange disease of modern life, 

With its sick hurry, its divided aims, 

Its heads o'ertaxed, its palsied hearts, was rife — 
Fly hence, our contact fear ! 

Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! 
Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern 
From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, 

Wave us away and keep thy solitude ! 

Still nursing the unconquerable hope. 

Still clutching the inviolable shade, 

With a free, onward impulse brushing through, 
By night, the silvered branches of the glade — 

Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, 
On some mild pastoral slope 
Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales 

Freshen thy flowers as in former years 

With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, 
From the dark dingles, to the nightingales ! 

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly ! 
For strong the infection of our mental strife. 
Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; 
And we should win thee from thy own fair life, 



ARNOLD 283 

Like us distracted, and like us unblest. 
Soon, soon thy cheer would die, 
Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfixed thy powers, 

And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made; 

And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, 
Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. 

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! 
As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea. 
Descried at sunrise an emerging ])row 
Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily, 
The fringes of a southward-facing brow 
Among the ^g?ean isles; 
And saw the merry Grecian coaster come. 

Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine. 
Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in 
brine — 
And knew the intruders on his ancient home, 

The young light-hearted masters of the waves — 
And snatched his rudder, and shook out more 
sail; 
And day and night held on indignantly 
O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale. 
Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 
To where the Atlantic raves 
Outside the western straits; and unbent sails 

There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of 

foam, 
Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; 
And on the beach undid his corded bales. 



284 CORY 

cx 

SCHOOL FENCIBLES 

'AVe come in arms, we stand ten score, 

Embattled on the castle green; 
We grasp our firelocks tight, for war 

Is threatening, and we see our Queen, 
And 'Will the churls last out till we 

Have duly hardened bones and thews 
For scouring leagues of swamp and sea 

Of braggart mobs and corsair crews? ' 
We ask; we fear not scoff or smile 

At meek attire of blue and grey, 
For the proud wrath that thrills our isle 

Gives faith and force to this array. 
So great a charm is England's right, 

That hearts enlarged together flow, 
And each man rises up a knight 

To work the evil-thinkers woe. 
And, girt with ancient truth and grace, 

We do our service and our suit. 
And each can be, whate'er his race, 

A Chandos or a Montacute. 
Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day. 

Bless the real swords that we shall wield, 
Repeat the call we now obey 

In sunset lands, on some fair field. 
Thy flag shall make some Huron rock 

As dear to us as Windsor's keep, 
And arms thy Thames hath nerved shall mock 

The surgings of th' Ontarian deep. 



CORY 285 

The stately music of thy Guards, 

Which times our march beneath thy ken, 
Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards, 

From heart to heart, when we are men. 
And when we bleed on alien earth, 

We'll call to mind how cheers of ours 
Proclaimed a loud uncourtly mirth 

Amongst thy glowing orange bowers. 
And if for England's sake we fall, 

So be it, so thy cross be won, 
Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall, 

And worn in death, for duty done. 
Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier's mate. 

Blending his image with the hopes of youth 
To hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fate 

Chills not our fancies with the iron truth. 
Death from afar we call, and Death is here, 

To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien; 
And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer, 

Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our 
Queen. 

CXI 

THE TWO CAPTAINS 

When George the Third was reigning a hundred 

years ago, 
He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe. 
'You're not afraid of shot,' said he, 'you're not 

afraid of wreck. 
So cruise about the west of France in the frigate 

called Quebec. 



286 CORY 

Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but twenty 

years ago 
King George the Second sent a man called General. . 
^ Wolfe, you know, || 

To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec, 
As you'd look down a hatchway when standing on 

the deck. 

If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then so you can 

beat them now. 
Before he got inside the town he died, I must allow. 
But since the town was won for us it is a lucky name, 
And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and you; 

shall do the same.' 

Then Farmer said, 'I'll try, sir,' and Farmer bowed 

so low 
That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow. 
George gave him his commission, and that it might 

be safer, 
Signed 'King of Britain, King of France,' and sealed 

it with a wafer. 

Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his own, 
And grander on his quarter-deck than George upon 

the throne. 
He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten. 
And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten 

score men. 

And as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen 

brace of dogs, 
With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs. 



CORY 287 

From Cape la Flogue to Ushant, from Rochefort to 

Belleisle, 
She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on 

her keel. 

The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright with 

melting tar, 
The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails 

afar; 
The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from 

out the Breton bay. 
And 'Clear for action!' Farmer shouts, and reefers 

yell 'Hooray!' 

The Frenchman's captain had a name I wish I could 

■pronounce; 
A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from 

bounce. 
One like those famous fellows who died by guillotine 
For honour and the fleurs-de-lys and Antoinette the 

Queen. 

The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George, 
Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths 

could forge; 
And both were simple seamen, but both could 

understand 
How each was bound to win or die for flag and 

native land. 

The French ship was /a Surveillante, which means 

the watchful maid; 
She folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade. 



288 CORY 

Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to 

spread more sail. 
On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came 
■■ like hail. 

Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside, 
And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried. 
A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing 

gun; 
We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the 

Frenchman won. 

Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all 

aglow ; 
Men hung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth 

to go; 
Our captain sat where once he stood, and would not 

quit his chair. 
He bade his comrades leap for life, and lea\e him 

bleeding there. 

The guns were hushed on either side, the Frenchmen 

lowered boats. 
They flung us planks and hencoops, and everything 

that floats. 
They risked their lives, good fellows ! to bring their 

rivals aid. 
'Twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely 

made. 

La Siirveillante was like a sieve; the victors had no rest. 
They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port 
of Brest. 



J 



CORY 



289 



•And where the waves leapt lower, and the riddled 

ship went slower, 
In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to 

tow her. 

They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for 

Farmer dead; 
x'Vnd as the wounded captives passed each Breton 

bowed the head. 
Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "Twas fire that 

won, not we. 
You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to 

England free.' 

'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred 
seventy-nine, 

A year when nations ventured against us to com- 
bine, 

Quebec was burnt and Farmer slain, by us re- 
membered not; 

But thanks be to the French book wherein they're 
not forgot. 

Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, 

bear in mind 
Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and 

kind; 
Think of the Breton gentlemen v/ho took our lads to 

Brest, 
And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a 

guest. 



290 MEREDITH 

CXII 

THE HEAD OF BRAN 

When the head of Bran 

Was firm on British shoulders, 

God made a man ! 
Cried all beholders. 

Steel could not resist 

The weight his arm would rattle; 
He with naked fist 

Has brained a knight in battle. 

He marched on the foe, 

And never counted numbers; 

Foreign widows know 

The liosts he sent to slumbers. 

As a street you scan 

That's towered by the steeple, 
So the head of Bran 

Rose o'er his people. 

'"Death's my neighbour,' 
Quoth l>ran the blest; 

'Christian labour 

Brings Christian rest. 

From the trunk sever 
The head of Bran, 

That which never 
Has bent to man! 



MEREDITH 291 

That which never 

To men has bowed 
Shall live ever 

To shame the shroud: 
Shall live ever 

To face the foe; 
Sever it, sever, 

And with one blow. 

Be it written, 

That all I wrought 
Was for Britain, 

In deed and thought : 
Be it written. 

That, while I die, 
"Glory to Britain!" 

Is my last cry. 

" Glory to Britain ! " 

Death echoes me round. 
Glory to Britain ! 

The world shall resound. 
Glory to Britain ! 

In ruin and fall, 
Glory to Britain ! 

Is heard over all. ' 



Burn, Sun, down the sea ! 
Bran lies low with thee. 

Burst, Morn, from the main ! 
Bran so shall rise again. 



292 MEREDITH 

Blow, Wind, from the field! 
Bran's Head is the Briton's shield. 

Beam, Star, in the west ! 

Bright burns the Head of Bran the Blest. 



Crimson-footed like the stork, 

From great ruts of slaughter. 
Warriors of the Golden Torque 

Cross the lifting water. 
Princes seven, enchaining hands, 

Bear the live Head homeward. 
Lo! it speaks, and still commands; 

Gazing far out foamward. 

Fiery words of lightning sense 

Down the hollows thunder; 
Forest hostels know not whence 

Comes the speech, and wonder. 
City-castles, on the steep 

Where the faithful Severn 
House at midnight, hear in sleep 

Laughter under heaven. 

Lilies, swimming on the mere, 

In the castle shadow. 
Under draw their heads, and Fear 

Walks the misty meadow; 
Tremble not, it is not Death 

Pledging dark espousal : 
'Tis the Head of endless breath, 

Challenging carousal ! 



MORRIS 293 

Brim the horn! a health is drunk, 

Now, that shall keep going: 
Life is but the pebble sunk, 

Deeds, the circle growing ! 
Fill, and pledge the Head of Bran ! 

While his lead they follow, 
Long shall heads in Britain plan 

Speech Death cannot swallow. 

George Meredith. 

cxni 
THE SLAYING OF THE NIBLUNGS 

HOGNI 

Ye shall know that in Atli's feast-hall on the side 
that joined the house 

Were many carven doorways whose work was glori- 
ous 

With marble stones and gold-work, and their doors 
of beaten brass : 

Lo now, in the merry morning how the story cometh 
to pass! 

— While the echoes of the trumpet yet fill the 
people's ears. 

And Hogni casts by the war-horn, and his Dwarf- 
wrought sword uprears. 

All those doors aforesaid open, and in pour the 
streams of steel, 

The best of the Eastland champions, the bold men 
of Atli's weal: 



294 MORRIS 

They raise no cry of battle nor cast forth threat of 

woe, 
And their hehned and hidden faces from each other 

vnone may know: 
Then a light in the hall ariseth, and the fire of 

battle runs 
All adown the front of the Niblungs in the face of 

the mighty-ones; 
All eyes are set upon them, hard drawn is every 

breath. 
Ere the foremost points be mingled and death be 

blent with death. 
— All eyes save the eyes of Hogni; but e'en as the 

edges meet. 
He turneth about for a moment to the gold of the 

kingly seat. 
Then aback to the front of battle; there then, as 

the lightning-flash 
Through the dark night showeth the city when the 

clouds of heaven clash. 
And the gazer shrinketh backward, yet he seeth 

from end to end 
The street and the merry market, and the windows 

of his friend, 
And the pavement where his footsteps yester'en 

returning trod. 
Now white and changed and dreadful 'neath the 

threatening voice of God; 
So Hogni seeth Gudrun, and the face he used to 

know, 



MORRIS 295 

Unspeakable, unchanging, with white unknitted 

brow 
With half-closed lips untrembling, with deedless 

hands and cold 
Laid still on knees that stir not, and the linen's 

moveless fold. 

Turned Hogni unto the spear-wall, and smote from 

where he stood. 
And hewed with his sword two-handed as the axe- 
man in a wood : 
Before his sword was a champion, and the edges clave 

to the chin, 
And the first man fell in the feast-hall of those that 

should fall therein. 
Then man with man v/as dealing, and the Niblung 

host of war 
Was swept by the leaping iron, as the rock anigh 

the shore 
By the ice-cold waves of winter: yet a moment 

Gunnar stayed 
As high in his hand unblooded he shook his awful 

blade; 
And he cried: 'O Eastland champions, do ye behold 

it here. 
The sword of the ancient Giuki ? Fall on and have 

no fear. 
But slay and be slain and be famous, if your master's 

will it be ! 
Yet are we the blameless Niblungs, and bidden 

guests are we : 



296 MORRIS 

So forbear, if ye wander hood-winked, nor for nothing 

slay and be slain; 
For I know not what to tell you of the dead that 
- live again.' 

So he saith in the midst of the foemen with his war- 
flame reared on high, 

But all about and around him goes up a bitter cry 

From the iron men of Atli, and the bickering of the 
steel 

Sends a roar up to the roof -ridge, and the Niblung 
war-ranks reel 

Behind the steadfast Gunnar: but lo! have ye seen 
the corn. 

While yet men grind the sickle, by the wind-streak 
overborne 

When the sudden rain sweeps downward, and sum- 
mer groweth black. 

And the smitten wood-side roareth 'neath the driv- 
ing thunder-wrack? 

So before the wise-heart Hogni shrank the champions 
of the East, 

As his great voice shook the timbers in the hall of 
Atli's feast. 

There he smote, and beheld not the smitten, and by 
nought were his edges stopped; 

He smote, and the dead were thrust from him; a 
hand with its shield he lopped; 

There met him Alti's marshal, and his arm at the 
shoulder he shred; 

Three swords were upreared against him of the best 
of the kin of the dead; 



MORRIS 297 

And he struck off a head to the rightward, and his 

sword through a throat he thrust, 
But the third stroke fell on his helm-crest, and he 

stooped to the ruddy dust. 
And uprose as the ancient Giant, and both his hands 

were wet : 
Red then was the world to his eyen, as his hand to 

the labour he set; 
Swords shook and fell in his pathway, huge bodies 

leapt and fell, 
Harsh grided shield and war-helm like the tempest- 
smitten bell. 
And the war-cries ran together, and no man his 

brother knew, 
And the dead men loaded the living, as he went 

the war-wood through; 
And man 'gainst man was huddled, till no sword 

rose to smite. 
And clear stood the glorious Hogni in an island of 

the fight, 
And there ran a river of death 'twixt the Niblung 

and his foes. 
And therefrom the terror of men and the wrath of 

the Gods arose. 

GUNNAR 

Now fell the sword of Gunnar, and rose up. red in 

the air. 
And hearkened the song of the Niblung, as his voice 

rang glad and clear, 



298 MORRIS 

And rejoiced and leapt at the Eastmen, and cried 

as it met the rings 
Of a Giant of King Atli and a murder-wolf of kings; 
But it quenched its thirst in his entrails, and knew 

the heart in his breast, 
And hearkened the praise of Gunnar, and lingered 

not to rest. 
But fell upon Atli's brother, and stayed not in his 

brain; 
Then he fell, and the King leapt over, and clave a 

neck atwain, 
And leapt o'er the sweep of a pole-axe, and thrust a 

lord in the throat. 
And King Atli's banner-bearer through shield and 

hauberk smote; 
Then he laughed on the huddled East-folk, and 

against their war-shields drave 
While the Avhite sw-ords tossed about him, and that 

archer's skull he clave 
Whom Atli had bought in the Southlands for many 

a pound of gold ; 
And the dark-skinned fell upon Gunnar, and over 

his war-shield rolled, 
And cumbered his sword for a season, and the many 

blades fell on, 
And sheared the cloudy helm-crest and rents in his 

hauberk won. 
And the red blood ran from Gunnar; till that Giuki's 

sword outburst. 
As the fire-tongue from the smoulder that the leafy 

heap hath nursed. 



MORRIS 299 

And unshielded smote King Gunnar, and sent the 

Niblung song 
Through the quaking stems of battle in the hall of 

Atli's wrong: 
Then he rent the knitted war-hedge till by Hogni's 

side he stood, 
And kissed him amidst of the spear-hail, and their 

cheeks were wet with blood. 

Then on came the Niblung bucklers, and they drave 

the East-folk home, 
As the bows of the oar-driven long-ship beat off the 

waves in foam: 
They leave their dead behind them, and they come 

to the doors and the wall. 
And a few last spears from the fleeing amidst their 

shield-hedge fall : 
But the doors clash to in their faces, as the fleeing 

rout they drive. 
And fain would follow after; and none is left alive 
In the feast-hall of King Atli, save those fishes of 

the net. 
And the white and silent woman above the slaughter 

set. 

Then biddeth the heart-wise Hogni, and men to 

the windows climb, 
And uplift the war-grey corpses, dead drift of the 

stormy time. 
And cast them adown to their people: thence they 

come aback and say 
That scarce shall ye see the houses, and no whit the 

wheel-worn way 



300 MORRIS 

For the spears and shields of the Eastlands that the 

merchant city throng; 
And back to the Nibkmg burg-gate the way seemed 
.. weary-long. 

Yet passeth hour on hour, and the doors they watch 

and ward 
But a long while hear no mail-clash, nor the ring- 
ing of the sword; 
Then droop the Niblung children, and their wounds 

are waxen chill, 
And they think of the burg by the river, and the 

builded holy hill. 
And their eyes are set on Gudrun as of men who 

would beseech; 
But unlearned are they in craving, and know not 

dastard's speech. 
Then doth Giuki's first-begotten a deed most fair 

to be told, 
For his fair harp Gunnar taketh, and the v\'arp of 

silver and gold; 
With the hand of a cunning harper he dealeth Avith 

the strings. 
And his voice in their midst goeth upward, as of 

ancient days he sings, 
Ot the days before the Niblungs, and the days that 

shall be yet; 
Till the hour of toil and smiting the warrior hearts 

forget. 
Nor hear the gathering foemen, nor the sound of 

swords aloof : 



MORRIS 301 

Then clear the song of Gunnar goes up to the dusky 

roof, 
And die coming spear-host tarries, and the bearers 

of the woe 
Through the cloisters of King Atli with lingering 

footsteps go. 

But Hogni looketh on Gudrun, and no change in 

her face he sees. 
And no stir in her folded linen and the deedless 

hands on her knees : 
Then from Gunnar's side he hasteneth; and lo ! the 

open door, 
And a foeman treadeth the pavement, and his lips 

are on Atli's floor, 
For Hogni is death in the doorway: then the 

Niblungs turn on the foe, 
And the hosts are mingled together, and blow cries 

out on blow. 

GUDRUN 

Still the song goeth up from Gunnar, though his 
harp to earth be laid; 

But he fighteth exceeding wisely, and is many a 
warrior's aid. 

And he shieldeth and delivereLh, and his eyes search 
through the hall, 

And woe is he for his fellows,as his battle-brethren fall; 

For the turmoil hideth little from that glorious folk- 
king's eyes. 

And o'er all he beholdeth Gudrun, and his soul is 
waxen wise, 



302 MORRIS 



And he saith: 'We shall look on Sigurd, and Si 

mund of old days, 
And see the boughs of the Branstock o'er the ancien] 
.. Volsung's praise.' 



I 



* 



Woe's me for the wrath of Hogni ! From the door 

he giveth aback 
That the Eastland slayers may enter to the murder 

and the wrack : 
Then he rageth and driveth the battle to the golden 

kingly seat, 
And the last of the foes he slayeth by Gudrun's 

very feet, 
That the red blood splasheth her raiment; and his 

own blood therewithal 
He casteth aloft before her, and the drops on her 

Avhite hands fall : 
But nought she seeth or heedeth, and again he turns 

to fight, 
Nor heedeth stroke nor wounding so he a foe may 

smite : 
Then the battle opens before him, and the Niblungs 

draw to his side; 
As death in the world first fashioned, through the 

feast-hall doth he stride. 
And so once more do the Niblungs sweep that 

murder-flood of men 
From the hall of toils and treason, and the doors 

swing to again. 
Then again is there peace for a little within the 

fateful fold; 



MORRIS 303 

But the Niblungs look about them, and but few 

folk they behold 
Upright on their feet for the battle : now they climb 

aloft no more, 
Nor cast the dead from the windows; but they 

raise a rampart of war, 
And its stones are the fallen East-folk, and no lowly 

wall is that. 

Therein was Gunnar the mighty: on the shields of 

men he sat. 
And the sons of his people hearkened, for his hand 

through the harp-strings ran, 
And he sang in the hall of his foeman of the Gods 

and the making of man, 
And how season was sundered from season in the 

days of the fashioning, 
And became the Summer and Autumn, and became 

the Winter and Spring; 
He sang of men's hunger and labour, and their love 

and their breeding of broil, 
And their hope that is fostered of famine, and their 

rest that is fashioned of toil : 
Fame then and the sword he sang of, and the hour 

of the hardy and wise. 
When the last of the living shall perish, and the 

first of the dead shall arise, 
And the torch shall be lit in the daylight, and God 

unto man shall pray, 
And the heart shall cry out for the hand in the 

fight of the uttermost day. 



304 MORRIS 



ii 



So he sang, and beheld not Gudrun, save as long* 

ago he saw 
His sister, the little maiden of the face without a flaw : 
But wearily Hogni beheld her, and no change in 

her face there was, 
And long thereon gazed Hogni, and set his brows 

as the brass, 
Though the hands of the King were weary, and 

weak his knees were grown. 
And he felt as a man unholpen in a waste land 

wending alone. 

THE SONS OF GIUKI 

Now the noon was long passed over when again the 

rumour arose. 
And through the doors cast open flowed in the river 

of foes: 
They flooded the hall of the murder, and surged 

round that rampart of dead; 
No war-duke ran before them, no lord to the onsel 

led. 
But the thralls shot spears at adventure, and shol 

out shafts from afar. 
Till the misty hall was blinded with the bitter drif 

of war : 
Few and faint were the Niblung children, and theii 

v/ounds were waxen acold. 
And they saw the Hell-gates open as they stood ii 

their grimly hold : 
Yet thrice stormed out King Hogni, thrice stormec 

out Gunnar the King, 



MORRIS 305 

Thrice fell they aback yet living to the heart of 

the fated ring; 
And they looked and their band was little, and no 

man but was Avounded sore, 
And the hall seemed growing greater, such hosts of 

foes it bore, 
So tossed the iron harvest from wall to gilded wall; 
And they looked and the white-clad Gudrun sat 

silent over all. 

Then the churls and thralls of the Eastland howled 

out as wolves accurst, 
But oft gaped the Niblungs voiceless, for they choked 

with anger and thirst; 
And the hall grew hot as a furnace, and men drank 

their flowing blood, 
Men laughed and gnawed on their shield-rims, men 

knew not where they stood. 
And saw not what was before them; as in the dark 

men smote. 
Men died heart-broken, unsmitten; men wept with 

the cry in the throat, 
Men lived on full of war-shafts, men cast their 

shields aside 
And caught the spears to their bosoms; men rushed 

with none beside. 
And fell unarmed on the foemen, and tore and slew 

in death : 
And still down rained the arrows as the rain across 

the heath; 
Still proud o'er all the turmoil stood the Kings of 

Giuki born. 



306 MORRIS 

Nor knit were the brows of Gunnar, nor his song- 
speech overworn; 

But Hogni's mouth kept silence, and oft his heart 
went forth 

To the long, long day of the darkness, and the end 
of worldly worth. 

Loud rose the roar of the East-folk, and the end was 

coming at last : 
Now the foremost locked their shield-rims and the 

hindmost over them cast. 
And nigher they drew and nigher, and their fear 

was fading away, 
For every man of the Niblungs on the shaft-strewn 

pavement lay. 
Save Gunnar the King and Hogni : still the glorious 

King up-bore 
The cloudy shield of the Niblungs set full of shafts 

of war; 
But Hogni's hands had fainted, and his shield had 

sunk adown. 
So thick with the Eastland spearwood was that ram- 
part of renown; 
And hacked and dull were the edges that had rent 

the wall of foes : 
Yet he stood upright by Gunnar before that shielded 

close. 
Nor looked on the foeman's faces as their wild eyes 

drew anear. 
And their faltering shield-rims clattered with the 

remnant of their fear; 



I 



MORRIS 307 

But he gazed on the Niblung woman, and the 

daughter of his folk, 
Who sat o'er all unchanging ere the war-cloud over 

them broke. 

Now nothing might men hearken in the house of 

Atli's weal, 
Save the feet slow tramping onward, and the rattling 

of the steel. 
And the song of the glorious Gunnar, that rang as 

clearly now 
As the speckled storm- cock singe th from the scant- 
leaved hawthorn-bough, 
When the sun is dusking over and the March snow 

pelts the land. 
There stood the mighty Gunnar with sword and 

shield in hand. 
There stood the shieldless Hogni with set unangry 

eyes. 
And watched the wall of war-shields o'er the dead 

men's rampart rise, 
And the white blades flickering nigher, and the 

quavering points of war. 
Then the heavy air of the feast-hall was rent with a 

fearful roar. 
And the turmoil came and the tangle, as the wall 

together ran : 
But aloft yet towered the Niblungs, and man toppled 

over man. 
And leapt and struggled to tear them; as whiles 

amidst the sea 



308 AUSTIN 

The doomed ship strives its utmost with mid-ocean's 

mastery, 
And the tail masts whip the cordage, while the 

v. welter whirls and leaps, 
And they rise and reel and waver, and sink amid 

the deeps : 
So before the little-hearted in King Atli's murder-hall 
Did the glorious sons of Giuki 'neath the shielded 

onrush fall : 
Sore wounded, bound and helpless, but living yet, 

they lie 
Till the afternoon and the even in the first of night 

shall die. 

William Morris. 
CXIV 

IS LIFE WORTH LIVING 

Is life worth living? Yes, so long 

As Spring revives the year, 
And hails us with the cuckoo's song, 

To show that she is here; 
So long as May of April takes. 

In smiles and tears, farewell. 
And windflov/ers dapple all the brakes. 

And primroses the dell; 
While children in the woodlands yet 

Adorn their little laps 
With ladysmock and violet. 

And daisy-chain their caps; 
While over orchard daffodils 

Cloud-shadows float and fleet, 



AUSTIN 309 

And ousel pipes and laverock trills, 

And young lambs buck and bleat; 
So long as that which bursts the bud 

And swells and tunes the rill 
Makes springtime in the maiden's blood, 

Life is worth living still. 

Life not worth living ! Come with me, 

Now that, through vanishing veil. 
Shimmers the dew on lawn and lea, 

And milk foams in the pail; 
Now that June's sweltering sunlight bathes 

With sweat the striplings lithe. 
As fall the long straight scented swathes 

Over the crescent scythe; 
Now that the throstle never stops 

His self-sufificing strain, 
And woodbine-trails festoon the copse, 

And eglantine the lane; 
Now rustic labour seems as sweet 

As leisure, and blithe herds 
Wend homeward with unweary feet, 

Carolling like the birds; 
Now all, except the lover's vow. 

And nightingale, is still; 
Here, in the twilight hour, allow. 

Life is worth living still. 

When Summer, lingering half-forlorn, 

On Autumn loves to lean, 
And fields of slowly yellowing corn 

Are girt by woods still green; 



310 AUSTIN 

When hazel-nuts wax brown and plump, 

And apples rosy-red, 
And the owlet hoots from hollow stump, 

And the dormouse makes its bed; 
When crammed are all the granary floors. 

And the Hunter's moon is bright. 
And life again is sweet indoors, 

And logs again alight; 
Ay, even when the houseless wind 

Waileth through cleft and chink. 
And in the twilight maids grow kind. 

And jugs are filled and clink; 
When children clasp their hands and pray 

'Be done Thy Heavenly will! ' 
Who doth not lift his voice, and say, 

'Life is worth living still ' ? 

Is life worth living? Yes, so long 

As there is wrong to right, 
Wail of the weak against the strong, 

Or tyranny to fight; 
Long as there lingers gloom to chase. 

Or streaming tear to dry. 
One kindred woe, one sorrowing face 

That smiles as we draw nigh; 
Long as at tale of anguish swells 

The heart, and lids grow wet, 
And at the sound of Christmas bells 

We pardon and forget; 
So long as Faith with Freedom reigns. 

And loyal Hope survives. 



LYALL 311 

And gracious Charity remains 

To leaven lowly lives; 
While there is one untrodden tract 

For Intellect or Will, 
And men are free to think and act 

Life is worth living still. 

Not care to live while English homes 

Nestle in English trees, 
And England's Trident-Sceptre roams 

Her territorial seas ! 
Not live while English songs are sung 

Wherever blows the wind. 
And England's laws and England's tongue 

Enfranchise half mankind ! 
So long as in Pacific main, 

Or on Atlantic strand, 
Our kin transmit the parent strain, 

And love the Mother-land; 
So long as flashes English steel, 

And English trumpets shrill. 

He is dead already who doth not feel 

Life is worth living still. 

Austin. 

CXV 

THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS 

Oft in the pleasant summer years, 

Reading the tales of days bygone, 
I have mused on the story of human tears, 

All that man unto man has done. 



312 LYALL 

Massacre, torture, and black despair; 
Reading it all in my easy-chair. 

. Passionate prayer for a minute's life; 

Tortured crying for death as rest; 
Husband pleading for child or wife, 

Pitiless stroke upon tender breast. 
Was it all real as that I lay there 
Lazily stretched on my easy-chair? 

Could I believe in those hard old times, 

Here in this safe luxurious age ? 
Were the horrors invented to season rhymes, 

Or truly is man so fierce in his rage ? 
What could I suffer, and what could I dare? 
I who was bred to that easy-chair. 

They were my fathers, the men of yore, 
Little they recked of a cruel death; 

They would dip their hands in a heretic's gore, 
They stood and burnt for a rule of faith. 

What would I burn for, and whom not spare ? 

I, who had faith in an easy-chair. 

Now do I see old tales are true, 
Here in the clutch of a savage foe; 

Now shall I know what my fathers knew, 
Bodily anguish and bitter woe. 

Naked and bound in the strong sun's glare, 

Far from my civilised easy-chair. 

Now have I tasted and understood 
That old-world feeling of mortal hate; 



LYALL 313 

For the eyes all round us are hot with blood; ^ 

They will kill us coolly — they do but wait; 
While I, I would sell ten lives, at least. 
For one fair stroke at that devilish priest. 

Just in return for the kick he gave, 

Bidding me call on the prophet's name; 

Even a dog by this may save 

Skin from the knife and soul from the flame ; 

My soul ! if he can let the prophet burn it, 

But life is sweet if a word may earn it. 

A bullock's death, and at thirty years! 

Just one phrase, and a man gets off it; 
Look at that mongrel clerk in his tears 

Whining aloud the name of the prophet; 
Only a formula easy to patter, 
And, God Almighty, what can it matter? 

'Matter enough,' will my comrade say 
Praying aloud here close at my side, 

'Whether you mourn in despair alway. 
Cursed for ever by Christ denied; 

Or whether you suffer a minute's pain 

All the reward of Heaven to gain.' 

Not for a moment faltereth he, 

Sure of the promise and pardon of sin; 

Thus did the martyrs die, I see, 
Little to lose and muckle to win; 

Death means Heaven, he longs to receive it, 

But what shall I do if I don't believe it? 



314 LYALL 

Life is pleasant, and friends may be nigh, 

Fain would I speak one word and be spared; 
Yet I could be silent and cheerfully die, 
.. If I were only sure God cared; 
If I had faith, and were only certain 
That light is behind that terrible curtain. 

But what if He listeth nothing at all. 

Of words a poor wretch in his terror may say? 

That mighty God who created all 

To labour and live their appointed day; 

Who stoops not either to bless or ban. 

Weaving the woof of an endless plan. 

He is the Reaper, and binds the sheaf, 
Shall not the season its order keep? 

Can it be changed by a man's belief? 
Millions of harvests still to reap; 

Will God reward, if I die for a creed. 

Or will He but pity, and sow more seed? 

Surely He pities who made the brain, 

When breaks that mirror of memories sweet, 

When the hard blow falleth, and never again 
Nerve shall quiver nor pulse shall beat; 

Bitter the vision of vanishing joys; 

Surely He pities when man destroys. 

Here stand I on the ocean's brink. 

Who hath brought news of the further shore ? 

How shall I cross it? Sail or sink, 
One thing is sure, I return no more; 

Shall I find haven, or aye shall I be 

Tossed in the depths of a shoreless sea? 



I 



LYALL 315 

They tell fair tales of a far-off land, 
Of love rekindled, of forms renewed; 

There may I only touch one hand 
Here life's ruin will little be rued; 

But the hand I have pressed and the voice I have 
heard, 

To lose them for ever, and all for a word ! 

Now do I feel that my heart must break 
All for one glimpse of a woman's face; 

Swiftly the slumbering memories wake 
Odour and shadow of hour and place; 

One bright ray through the darkening past 

Leaps from the lamp as it brightens last, 

Showing me summer in western land 

Now, as the cool breeze murmureth 
In leaf and flower — And here I stand 

In this plain all bare save the shadow of death; 
Leaving my life in its full noonday. 
And no one to know why I flung it away. 

Why? Am I bidding for glory's roll? 

I shall be murdered and clean forgot; 
Is it a bargain to save my soul ? 

God, whom I trust in, bargains not; 
Yet for the honour of English race, 
May I not live or endure disgrace. 

Ay, but the word, if I could have said it, 

I by no terrors of hell perplext; 
Hard to be silent and have no credit 

From man in this world, or reward in the next; 



316 SWINBURNE 

None to bear witness and reckon the cost 

Of the name that is saved by the life that is lost. 

I must be gone to the crowd untold 

Of men by the cause which they served unknown, 
Who moulder in myriad graves of old; 

Never a story and never a stone 
Tells of the martyrs who die like me, 
Just for the pride of the old countree. 



Lyall. 



CXVI 

THE OBLATION 

Ask nothing more of me, sweet; 
All I can give you I give. 

Heart of my heart, were it more, 
More would be laid at your feet : 
Love that should help you to live. 
Song that should spur you to soar. 

All things were nothing to give 
Once to have sense of you more. 
Touch you and taste of you, sweet, 
Think you and breathe you and live, 
Swept of your wings as they soar. 
Trodden by chance of your feet. 

I that have love and no more 
Give you but love of you, sweet : 
He that hath more, let him give; 
He that hath wings, let him soar; 
Mine is the heart at your feet 
Here, that must love you to live. 



SWINBURNE 317 

CXVII 

ENGLAND 

England, queen of the waves, whose green inviolate 

girdle enrings thee round, 
Mother fair as the morning, where is now the place 

of thy foemen found? 
Still the sea that salutes us free proclaims them 

stricken, acclaims thee crowned. 
Time may change, and the skies grow strange with 

signs of treason, and fraud, and fear: 
Foes in union of strange communion may rise against 

thee from far and near : 
Sloth and greed on thy strength may feed as cankers 

waxing from year to year. 

Yet, though treason and fierce unreason should 
league and lie and defame and smite, 

We that know thee, how far below thee the hatred 
burns of the sons of night, 

We that love thee, behold above thee the witness 
written of life in light. 

Life that shines from thee shows forth signs that 
none may read not by eyeless foes : 

Hate, born blind, in his abject mind grows hopeful 
now but as madness grows : 

Love, born wise, with exultant eyes adores thy glory, 
beholds and glows. 

Truth is in thee, and none may win thee to lie, for- 
saking the face of truth : 



318 SWINBURNE 

Freedom lives by the grace she gives thee, born 

again from thy deathless youth : 
Faith should fail, and the world turn pale, wert thou 
■»^ the prey of the serpent's tooth. 

Greed and fraud, unabashed, unawed, may strive to 

sting thee at heel in vain; 
Craft and fear and mistrust may leer and mourn and 

murmur and plead and plain : 
Thou art thou : and thy sunbright brow is hers that 

blasted the strength of Spain. 

Mother, mother beloved, none other could claim in 

place of thee England's place: 
Earth bears none that beholds the sun so pure of 

record, so clothed with grace : 
Dear our mother, nor son nor brother is thine, as 

strong or as fair of face. 
How shalt thou be abased? or how shalt fear take 

hold of thy heart? of thine, 
England, maiden immortal, laden with charge of life 

and with hopes divine? 
Earth shall wither, when eyes turned hither behold 

not light in her darkness shine. 

England, none that is born thy son, and lives by 

grace of thy glory, free. 
Lives and yearns not at heart and burns with hope 

to serve as he worships thee; 
None may sing thee: the sea-wind's wing beats 

down our songs as it hails the sea. 



SWINBURNE 319 

CXVIII 

A JACOBITE IN EXILE 

The weary day rins down and dies, 

The weary night wears through: 
And never an hour is fair wi' flower, 

And never a flower wi' dew, 

I would the day were night for me, 

I would the night were day : 
For then would I stand in my ain fair land, 

As now in dreams I may. 

O lordly flow the Loire and Seine, 

And loud the dark Durance : 
But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne 

Than a' the fields of France; 
And the waves of Till that speak sae still 

Gleam goodlier where they glance. 

O weel were they that fell fighting 

On dark Drumossie's day: 
They keep their hame ayont the faem 

And we die far away. 

O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep. 

But night and day wake we ; 
And ever between the sea banks green 

Sounds loud the sundering sea. 

And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep 

But sweet and fast sleep they : 
And the mool that haps them roun' and laps them 

Is e'en their country's clay; 



320 SWINBURNE 

But the land we tread that are not dead 
Is strange as night by day. 

Strange as night in a strange man's sight, 

Though fair as dawn it be : 
For what is here that a stranger's cheer 

Should yet wax blithe to see ? 

The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep. 

The fields are green and gold : 
The hill-streams sing, and the hill-sides ring, 

As ours at home of old. 

But hills and flowers are nane of ours. 

And ours are over sea : 
And the kind strange land whereon we stand. 

It wotsna what were we 
Or ever we came, wi' scathe and shame. 

To try what end might be. 

Scathe and shame, and a waefu' name, 

And a weary time and strange, 
Have they that seeing a weird for dreeing 

Can die, and cannot change. 

Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn, 

Though sair be they to dree : 
But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide, 

Mair keen than wind and sea. 

Ill may we thole the night's watches. 

And ill the weary day : 
And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep, 

A waefu' gift gie they; "' 

For the songs they sing us, the sights they bring us. 

The morn blaws all away. 



SWINBURNE 321 

On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw, 

The burn rins blithe and fain: 
There's nought \vi' me I wadna gie 

To look thereon again. 

On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide: 

There sounds nae hunting-horn 
That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat 

Round banks where Tyne is born. 

The Wansbeck sings with all her springs 

The bents and braes give ear; 
But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings 

I may not see nor hear; 
For far and far thae blithe burns are, 

And strange is a' thing near. 

The light there lightens, the day there brightens, 

The loud wind there lives free : 
Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me 

That I wad hear or see. 

But O gin I were there again, 

Afar ayont the faem, 
Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed 

That haps my sires at hame ! 

We'll see nae mair the sea-banks fair. 

And the sweet grey gleaming sky, 
And the lordly strand of Northumberland, 

And the goodly towers thereby; 
And none shall know but the winds that blow 

The craves wherein we lie. 



322 BRET HARTE 

cxix 

THE REVEILLE 

Hark ! I hear the tramp of thousands. 

And of armed men the hum; 
Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered 
Round the quick alarming drum, — 
Saying, 'Come, 
Freemen, come ! 
Ere your heritage be wasted, ' said the quick alarm- 
ing drum. 

'Let me of my heart take counsel: 

■W^ar is not of life the sum; 
Who shall stay and reap the harvest 
When the autumn days shall come? 
But the drum 
Echoed, 'Come! 
Death shall reap the braver harvest,' said the 
solemn-sounding drum. 

'But when won the coming battle, 

What of profit springs therefrom? 
What if conquest, subjugation. 
Even greater ills become ? ' 
But the drum 
Answered, 'Come! 
You must do the sum to prove it,' said the Yankee- 
answering drum. 

'What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder, 
Whistling shot and bursting bomb, 



BRET HARTE 323 

When my brothers fall around me, 

Should my heart grow cold and numb ? ' 
But the drum 
Answered, 'Come ! 
Better there in death united, than in life a recreant, 
— Come ! ' 

Thus they answered, — hoping, fearing, 

Some in faith, and doubting some, 
Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming. 
Said, 'My chosen people, come! ' 
Then the drum, 
Lo ! was dumb. 
For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered^ 
'Lord, we come! ' 

cxx 

WHAT THE BULLET SANG 

O Joy of creation 
To be! 

rapture to fly 

And be free ! 
Be the battle lost or won 
Though its smoke shall hide the sun, 

1 shall find my love — the one 

Born for me ! 

I shall know him where he stands, 

All alone. 
With the power in his hands 

Not o'erthrown; 



324 DOBSON 



I shall know him by his face, 
By his god-like front and grace; 
I shall hold him for a space 
All my own ! 

It is he — O my love ! 

So bold ! 
It is I — All thy love 

Foretold ! 
It is I. O love! what bliss! 
Dost thou answer to my kiss? 
O sweetheart ! what is this 

Lieth there so cold? 

Bret Harte. 



CXXI 

A BALLAD OF THE ARMADA 

King Philip had vaunted his claims; 

He had sworn for a year he would sack us ; 
With an army of heathenish names 

He was coming to fagot and stack us; 

Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, 
And shatter our ships on the main; 

But we had bold Neptune to back us — 
And where are the galleons of Spain? 

His carackes were christened of dames 
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; 

With his saints and his gilded stern-frames 
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us; 



LANG 32£ 

Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, 
And Drake to his Devon again, 

And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus — 
For where are the galleons of Spain? 

Let his Majesty hang to St. James 

The axe that he whetted to hack us; 
He must play at some lustier games 

Or at sea he can hope to out- thwack us; 

To his mines of Peru he would pack us 
To tug at his bullet and chain; 

Alas ! that his Greatness should lack us ! — 
But where are the galleons of Spain? 

ENVOY 

Gloriana ! — the Don may attack us 
Whenever his stomach be fain; 

He must reach us before he can rack us, . . . 

And where are the galleons of Spain? 

Dobson. 

cxxn 

THE WHITE PACHA 

Vain is the dream ! However Hope may rave, 
He perished with the folk he could not save. 
And though none surely told us he is dead, 
And though perchance another in his stead, 
Another, not less brave, when all was done, 
Had fled unto the southward and the sun, 
Had urged a way by force, or won by guile 
To streams remotest of the secret Nile, 



326 STEVENSON 

Had raised an army of the Desert men, 
And, waiting for his hour, had turned again 
And fallen on that False Prophet, yet we know 
GOi^DON is dead, and these things are not so ! 
Nay, not for England's cause, nor to restore 
Her trampled flag — for he loved Honour more — 
Nay, not for Life, Revenge, or Victory, 
Would he have fled, whose hour had dawned to die. 
He will not come again, whate'er our need. 
He will not come, who is happy, being freed 
From the deathly flesh and perishable things, 
And lies of statesmen and rewards of kings. 
Nay, somewhere by the sacred River's shore 
He sleeps like those who shall return no more, 
No more return for all the prayers of men — 
Arthur and Charles — they never come again ! 
They shall not wake, though fair the vision seem: 
Whate'er sick Hope may whisper, vain the dream! 

Lang. 

cxxin 

MOTHER AND SON 

It is not yours, O mother, to complain, 

Not, mother, yours to weep, 

Though nevermore your son again 

Shall to your bosom creep. 

Though nevermore again you watch your baby sleep. 

Though in the greener paths of earth 

Mother and child, no more 

We wander; and no more the birth 



STEVENSON 327 

Of me whom once you bore, 

Seems still the brave reward that once it seemed of 
yore; 

Though as all passes, day and night, 

The seasons and the years, 

From you, O mother, this delight. 

This also disappears — 

Some profit yet survives of all your pangs and tears. 

The child, the seed, the grain of corn. 
The acorn on the hill, 
Each for some separate end is born 
In season fit, and still 

Each must in strength arise to work the Almighty 
will. 

So from the hearth the children flee, 
By that Almighty hand 
Austerely led; so one by sea 
Goes forth, and one by land; 

Nor aught of all men's sons escapes from that com- 
mand. 

So from the sally each obeys 
The unseen Almighty nod; 
So till the ending all their ways 
Blind-folded loth have trod: 

Nor knew their task at all, but were the tools of 
God. 

And as the fervent smith of yore 
Beat out the glowing blade. 
Nor wielded in the front of war 



328 BEECHING 



I 



The weapons that he made, 
But in the tower at home still plied his ringing 
trade ; 

So like a sword the son shall roam 

On nobler missions sent; 

And as the smith remained at home 

In peaceful turret pent, 

So sits the while at home the mother well content. 

Stevenson. 

cxxrv 
PRAYERS 

God who created me 

Nimble and light of limb, 
In three elements free, 

To run, to ride, to swim: 
Not when the sense is dim, 

But now from the heart of joy, 
I would remember Him : 

Take the thanks of a boy. 

Jesu, King and Lord, 

Whose are my foes to fight, 
Gird me with Thy sword 

Swift and sharp and bright. 
Thee would I serve if I might; 

And conquer if I can, 
From day-dawn till night. 

Take the strength of a man. 



KIPLING 329 

Spirit of Love and Truth, 

Breathing in grosser clay, 
The light and flame of youth, 

Delight of men in the fray, 
Wisdom in strength's decay; 

From pain, strife, wrong to be free 
This best gift I pray. 

Take my spirit to Thee. 

Beeching. 

\ cxxv 

A BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST 

K\MAL is out with twenty men to raise the Border side, 
And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the 

Colonel's pride: 
He has lifted her out of the stable-door between 

the dawn and the day, 
And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden 

her far away. 
Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop 

of the Guides: 
'Is there never a man of all my men can say Vv^here 

Kamal hides? ' 
Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of 

the Ressaldar, 
'If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know 

where his pickets are. 
At dusk he harries the Abazai — at dawn he is into 

Bonair — 
But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place 

to fare. 



330 KIPLING 



) 



So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can flyj 
By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he 

win to the Tongue of Jagai. 
But if he be passed the Tongue of Jagai, right 

swiftly turn ye then, 
For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain 

are sown with Kamal's men.' 
The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw 

rough dun was he, 
With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell and 

the head of the gallows-tree. 
The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid hira 

stay to eat — 
Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not 

long at his meat. 
He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he 

can fly. 
Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut oi 

the Tongue of Jagai, 
Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal 

upon her back. 
And when he could spy the white of her eye, he 

made the pistol crack. 
He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whist 

ling ball went wide. 
*Ye shoot like a soldier,' Kamal said. 'Show now 

if ye can ride.' 
It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust 

devils go, 
The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like 

a barren doe. 



KIPLING 331 

The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his 

head above, 
But the red mare played with the snaiifle-bars as a 

lady plays with a glove. 
They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their 

hoofs drum up the dawn, 
The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare 

like a new-roused fawn. 
The dun he fell at a water-course — in a woful heap 

fell he,— 
And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and 

pulled the rider free. 
He has knocked the pistol out of his hand — small 

room was there to strive — 
' 'Twas only by favour of mine,' quoth he, 'ye rode 

so long alive; 
There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was 

not a clump of tree, 
But covered a man of my own men with his rifle 

cocked on his knee. 
If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, 
The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all 

in a row; 
If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have 

held it high, 
The kite that whistles above us now were gorged 

till she could not fly,' 
Lightly answered the Colonel's son : — ' Do good to 

bird and beast, 
But count who come for the broken meats before 

thou makest a feast. 



r 



332 KIPLING 



\ 



If there should follow a thousand swords to car: 

my bones away, 
Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than 

a thief could pay. 
They will feed their horse on the standing crop, 

their men on the garnered grain, 
The thatch of the byres will serve their fires whet 

all the cattle are slain. 
But if thou thinkest the price be fair, and thy 

brethren wait to sup. 
The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, — howl, dog, 

and call them up ! 
And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steel 

and gear and stack. 
Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight mj 

own way back ! ' 
Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upou 

his feet. 
* No talk shall be of dogs,' said he, ' when wolf an 

grey wolf meet. 
May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath, 
What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the 

dawn with Death ? ' 
Lightly answered the Colonel's son : — ' I hold by th 

blood of my clan ; 
Take up the mare for my father's gift — By God she 

has carried a man ! ' 
The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled 

her nose in his breast, 
'We be two strong men,' said Kamal then, 'but she 

loveth the younger best. 



KIPLING 333 

So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise 

studded rein, 
My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver 

stirrups twain.' 
The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle- 
end, 
*Ye have taken the one from a foe,' said he; 'will 

ye take the mate from a friend ? ' 
*A gift for a gift,' said Kamal straight; 'a limb for 

the risk of a limb. 
Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son 

to him ! ' 
With that he whistled his only son, who dropped 

from a mountain-crest — 
He trod the ling like a buck in spring and he looked 

like a lance in rest. 
* Now here is thy master, ' Kamal said, ' who leads a 

troop of the Guides, 
And thou must ride at his left side as shield to 

shoulder rides. 
Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and 

board and bed. 
Thy life is his — thy fate it is to guard him with thy 

head. 
And thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and 

all her foes are thine. 
And thou must harry thy father's hold for the 

peace of the Border-line, 
And thou must make a trooper tough and hack 

thy way to power — 
Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am 

hanged in Peshawur.' 



334 KIPLING 



'I 



k| 



They have looked each other between the eyes/ 

and there they found no fault, 
They have taken the Oath of the Brother- in-Blood 

V on leavened bread and salt; 
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood 

on fire and fresh-cut sod, 
On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and 

the Wondrous Names of God. 
The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy 

the dun, 
And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there 

went forth but one. 
And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full 

twenty swords flew clear — 
There was not a man but carried his feud with the 

blood of the mountaineer. 
Ha' done ! ha' done ! ' said the Colonel's son. ' Put 

up the steel at your sides ! 
Last night ye had struck at a Border thief — to 

night 'tis a man of the Guides! ' 

Oh, east is east, and west is west, and never the 

two shall meet 
Till earth and sky stand presently at God's great 

Judgment Seat. 
But there is neither east nor w-est, border or breed 

or birth. 
When two strong men stand face to face, though 

they come from the ends of the earth. 



KIPLING 335 

CXXVI 

THE FLAG OF ENGLAND 

Winds of the World, give answer ! They are whim- 
pering to and fro — 

And what should they know of England who only 
England know? — 

The poor little street-bred people that vapour and 
fume and brag, 

They are lifting their heads in the stillness to 
yelp at the English Flag. 

Must we borrow a clout from the Boer — to plaster 

anew with dirt? 
An Irish liar's bandage, or an English coward's 

shirt? 
We may not speak of England; her Flag's to sell 

or share. 
What is the Flag of England? Winds of the 

World, declare ! 

The North Wind blew: — 'From Bergen my steel- 
shod vanguards go; 

I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe; 

By the great North Lights above me I work the 
will of God, 

And the liner splits on the ice-fields or the Dogger 
fills with cod. 

I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors 

with flame, 
Because to force my ramparts your nutshell 

navies came; 



336 KIPLING 



J 



I took the sun from their presence, I cut the 

down with my blast, 
And they died, but the Flag of England blew free 

ere the spirit passed. 

The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long 

Arctic night. 
The musk-ox knows the standard that (louts the 

Northern Light: 
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my 

bergs to dare. 
Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, foi 

it is there ! ' 

The South Wind sighed: — 'From the Virgins mj 

mid-sea course was ta'en 
Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main. 
Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the 

long-backed breakers croon 
Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked 

lagoon. 

Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys, 
I w^aked the palms to laughter — I tossed the scud 

in the breeze — 
Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone. 
But over the scud and the palm-trees an English 

flag was flown. 

I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang 

for a wisp on the Horn; 
I have chased it north to the Lizard — ribboned 

and rolled and torn; 



KIPLING 337 

I have spread its fold o'er the dying, adrift in a 

hopeless sea; 
I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the 

slave set free. 

My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross, 
Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the 

Southern Cross. 
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my 

reefs to dare, 
Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it 

is there ! ' 

The East Wind roared: — 'From the Kuriles, the 

Bitter Seas, I come, 
And me men call the Home- Wind, for I bring 

the English home. 
Look — look well to your shipping ! By the breath 

of my mad typhoon 
I swept your close-packed Praya and beached 

your best at Kowloon ! 

The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas 
before, 

I raped your richest roadstead — I plundered Sing- 
apore ! 

I set my hand on the Hoogli ; as a hooded snake 
she rose. 

And I heaved your stoutest steamers to roost with 
the startled crows. 

Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake, 
But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died 
for England's sake — 



338 KIPLING 



1 



Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride o 

maid — 

Because on the bones of the English the English 
'^. Flag is stayed. 

The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the Hying wild- 
ass knows. 

The scared white leopard winds it across the taint 
less snows. 

What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my 
sun to dare, 

Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for i 
is there ! ' 

The V/est Wind called: — 'In squadrons the thought 

less galleons fly 
That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-brec 

people die. 
They make my might their porter, they make mj 

house their path. 
And I loose my neck from their service and whelm 

them all in my wrath. 

I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawi 

from the hole. 
They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship 

bells toll : 
For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shrouc 

with my breath, 
And they see strange bows above them and th^ 

two go locked to death. 



KIPLING 339 

But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by 

dark or day 
I heave them whole to the conger or rip their 

plates away, 
First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking 

sky, 
Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag 

goes by. 

The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it — the frozen 

dews have kissed — 
The morning stars have hailed it, a fellow-star in 

the mist. 
What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my 

breath to dare. 
Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for 

it is there ! ' 



J 



NOTES 



This descant upon one of the most glorious feats of arms that 
even England has achieved is selected and pieced together from 
the magnificent verse assigned to the Chorus — 'Enter RUMOUR 
painted full of tongues ' — to King Henry I '., the noble piece of 
pageantry produced in 1598, and a famous number from the Poems 
Lyrick and Fastorall (circ. 1605) of Michael Drayton. ' Look,' 
says Ben Jonson, in his Visiori on the Muses of his Friend, Michael 
Drayton : — 

Look how we read the Spartans were inflamed 
With bold Tyrtjeiis' verse; when thou art named 
So shall our English youths urge on, and cry 
AnAciNCOURT! an Agincourt! or die. 

This, it is true, was in respect of another Agincourt, but we need 
not hesitate to appropriate it to our own : in respect of which — ' To 
the Cambro-Britons and their Harp, His Ballad of Agincourt,' is 
the poet's own description — it is to note that Drayton had no 
model for it ; that it remains wellnigh unique in English letters for 
over two hundred years; and that, despite such lapses into dog- 
gerel as the third stanza, and some curious infelicities of diction 
which need not here be specified, it remains, with a certain Sonnet, 
its author's chief title to fame. Compare the ballads of The Brave 
Lord Willoughby and The Honour of Bristol in the seventeenth 
century, the song of The Arethusa in the eighteenth, and in the 
nineteenth a choice of such Tyrta?an music as The Battle of the Bal- 
tic, Lord Tennyson's Ballad of the Fleet, and The Red Thread of 
Honour of the late Sir Francis Doyle. 



n 

Originally The True Character of a Happy Life : written and 
printed about 161^, and reprinted by Percy (1765) from the J?eli- 
quicB Wottoniana of 1651. Says Drummond of Ben Jonson, 'Sir 
Edward {sic) Wotton's verses of a Happy Life he hath by heart.' 
Of Wotton himself it was reserved for Cowley to remark that 

He did the utmost bounds of knowledge find, 
And found them not so large as was his mind; 

****** 
And when he saw that he through all had passed 
He died — lest he should idle grow at last. 

See Izaak Walton, Lives. 

341 



342 NOTES 



From Underwoods (1640). The first, An Ode, is addressed to an 
innominate not yet, I believe, identified. The second is part of 
that Ode to the Immortal Memory of that Heroic Pair, Sir Lucius 
Caty and Sir Henry Morrison, which is the first true Pindaric in 
the language. Gifford ascribes it to 1629, when Sir Henry died, 
but it seems not to have been printed before 1640. Sir Lucius 
Gary is the Lord P'alkland of Clarendon and Horace Walpole. 



From The lifad Lover (produced about 1618: published in 1640). 
Compare the wooden imitations of Dryden in Amboyna and else- 
where. 



VI 

First printed, Mr. Bullen tells me, in 1640. Compare X. 
(Shirley, post, p. 20), and the cry from Raleigh's History of the 
World: 'O Eloquent, Just, and Mighty Death! Whom none 
could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou 
hast done; and whom all the World hath flattered, thou only hast 
cast out of the World and despised: thou hast drawn together ail 
the far-stretched Greatness, all the Pride, Cruelty, and Ambition 
of Man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, 
"Hie yacet." ' 

VII, VIII 

This pair of ' noble numbers,' of brilliant and fervent lyrics, is 
from Hespertdes, or. The Works both Human and Divine of Robert 
Herrick,Esq. (1648). 



No. 61, 'Vertue,' in The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private 
Ejaculations, 1632-33. Compare Herbert to Christopher Farrer, 
as reported by Izaak Walton : — ' Tell him that I do not repine, 
but am pleasetl with my want of health ; and tell him, my heart is 
fixed on that place where true joy is only to be found, and that I 
long to be there, and do wait for my appointed change with hope 
and patience.' 



From The Contention of AJax and Ulysses, printed 1659. Com- 
pare VL (Beaumont, ante, p. 15), and Bacon, Essays, ' On Deatli ' : 



'I 



NOTES 343 

' But, above all, believe it, the sweetest canticle is Nunc dimittis, 
when a man hath attained worthy ends and expectations." 



Written in the November of 1637, and printed next year in 
the Obsequies to the Memorie of Air. Edivard King. ' In this 
Monody," the title runs, ' the Author bewails a Learned Friend 
unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish 
Seas, 1637. And by occasion foretells the ruiiie of our corrupted 
Clergie, then in their height.' King, who died at five- or six-and- 
twenty, was a personal friend of Milton"s, but the true accents 
of grief are inaudible in Lycidas, which is, indeed, an example 
as perfect as exists of Milton's capacity for turning whatever he 
touched into pure poetry : an arrangement, that is, of ' the best 
words in the best order ' ; or, to go still further than Coleridge, the 
best words in the prescribed or inevitable sequence that makes the 
arrangement art. For the innumerable allusions see Professor 
Masson's edition of Milton (Macmillan, 1890), i. 187-201, and 
iii. 254-276. 



The Eighth Sonnet (Masson) : ' When the Assault was Intended 
to the City.' Written in 1642, with Rupert and the King at 
Brentford, and printed in the edition of 1645. 



The Sixteenth Sonnet (Masson) : ' To the Lord General 
Cromwell, May, 1652: On the Proposals of Certain Ministers at 
the Committee for Propagation of the Gospel." Printed by Philips, 
Life of Milton, 1694. In defence of the principle of Religious Vol- 
untaryism, and against the intolerant Fifteen Proposals of John 
Owen and the majority of the Committee. 



The Eighteenth Sonnet (Masson). 'Written in 1655,' says 
Masson, and referring 'to the persecution instituted, in the early 
part of the year, by Charles Emmanuel 11., Duke of Savoy and 
Prince of Piedmont, against his Protestant subjects of the 
valleys of the Cottian Alps." In January, an edict required 
them to turn Romanists or quit the country out of hand; it was 
enforced with such barbarity that Cromwell took the case of 
the sufferers in hand ; and so vigorous was his action that the 
Edict was withdrawn and a convention was signed (August 1655) 
by which the Vaudois were permitted to worship as they would. 
Printed in 1673. 



344 NOTES 



XV 



The Nineteenth Sonnet (Masson) ' may have been written any 
time between 1652 and 1655,' the first years of Milton's blindness, 
' but it follows the Sonnet on the Piedmontese Massacre in Milton's 
own Volume of 1673.' 



i 



From the choric parts of Samson Agonistes {i.e. the Agonist, or 
Wrestler), first printed in 1671. 



Of uncertain date; first printed by Watson 1706-11. The version 
given here is Emerson's (which is shorter than the original), with the 
exception of the last stanza, which is Napier's {Montrose, i. Appen- 
dices). Napier is at great pains to prove that the ballad is allegorical, 
and that Montrose's ' dear and only love ' was that unhappy King 
whose Epitaph, the famous Great, Good, and Just, he is said — 
falsely — to have written with his sword. Be this as it may, the 
verses have a second part, which has dropped into oblivion. 
For the Great Marquis, who reminded De Retz of the men in 
Plutarch's Lives, was not averse from the practice of poetry, and 
wrote, besides these numbers, a prayer (' Let them bestow on 
every airth a limb'), a 'pasqiiil,'a pleasant string of conceits in 
praise of woman, a set of vehement and fiery memorial stanzas on 
the King, and one copy of verses more. 



To Lucasta going to the Wars and To Alt/tea from Prison 
are both, I believe, from Lovelace's Lucasta (1645). 



First printed by Captain Thomson, Works (1776), from a copy 
he held, on what seems excellent authority, to be in Marvell's hand. 
The true title is A Horatian Ode on Croimoell's Return from 
Ireland (1650). It is always ascribed to Marvell (whose verse 
was first collected and printed by his widow in 1681), but there 
are faint doubts as to the authorship. 



Poems (1681). This elegant and romantic lyric appears to have 
been inspired by a passage in the life of John Oxenbridge, of 
whom, ' religionis causa obcrrantem,' it is enoiigh to note that, 



w 



NOTES 345 

after migrating to Bermudas, where he had a church, and being 
■ ejected ' at the Restoration from an English cure, he went to 
Surinam (1662-67), to Barbadoes (16&7), and to New England 
(1669), where he was made pastor of ' the First Church of Boston' 
(1670), and where he died in 1674. These details are from Mr. 
Grosart's Marvell (1875), '• 82-85, ^'^^ ''• 5~8. 



XXIII 

Dryden's second Ode for Saint Cecilia's Day, Alexander's Feast, 
or the Power of Sound, as it is called, was written and printed in 
1697. As it was designed for music (it was set by Jeremiah 
Clarke), the closing lines of every strophe are repeated by way 
of chorus. I have removed these repetitions as impertinent to 
the effect of the poem in print, and as interrupting the rushing 
vehemency of the narrative. The incident described is the burning 
of Persepolis. 

XXIV 

Written early in 1782, in memory of Robert Levett : ' an old 
and faithful friend,' says Johnson, and withal ' a very useful and 
very blameless man.' Excepting for the perfect odes of Cowper 
{post, pp. 85, 86), in these excellent and affecting verses the 
' classic ' note is audible for the last time in this book until we reach 
the Ipkigeneia of Walter Savage Landor, who was a lad of seven 
at the date of their composition. They were written seventeen 
years after the publication of the Reliqucs (1765), and a full quarter 
century after the appearance of The Bard (1757) ; but in style they 
proceed from the age of Pope. For the rest, the Augustan Muse 
was an utter stranger to the fighting inspiration. Her gait was 
pedestrian, her purpose didactic, her practice neat and formal : and 
she prosed of England's greatest captain, the victor of Blenheim, as 
tamely as himself had been 'a parson in a tye-wig ' — himself, and 
not the amiable man of letters who acted as her amanuensis for 
the nonce. 



Chevy Chase is here preferred to Ottcrbonrne as appealing more 
directly to Englishmen. The text is Percy's, and the movement, 
like that of all the English ballads, is jog-trot enough. Sidney's 
confession — that he never heard it, even from a blind fiddler, but it 
stirred him like the sound of a trumpet — refers, no doubt, to an 
earlier version than the present, which appears to date from the 
first quarter of the seventeenth century. Compare The Brave Lord 
Willoughby and The Honour of Bristol [fost, pp. 60,73). 



346 NOTES 



First printed by Percy. The text I give is, with some few variants, 
that of the vastly better version in The Minstrelsy of the Scottish 
Bo>-de/- (1802-3). Of the 'history' of the ballad the less said the 
better. The argument is neatly summarised by Mr. AUingham, p. 
376 of The Ballad Book (' Golden Treasury," 1879). 

skeely = skilful gurly = rougli wap = warp 

white monie = silver lap = sprang flattered = 'fluttered, 

gane = would suffice bout = bolt or rather, floated ' 

half-fou = the eighth twine = thread, (Scott) 

part of a peck i.e. canvas kaims = combs 



Printed by Percy, 'from an old black-letter copy; with some 
conjectural emendations." At the suggestion of my friend, the 
Rev. Mr. Hunt, I have restored the original readings, as in 
truer consonancy with the vainglorious, insolent, and swaggering 
ballad spirit. As for the hero, Peregrine Bertie, Lord Willoughby 
of Eresby, described as ' one of the Queen's best swordsmen' and 
'a great master of the art military,' he succeeded Leicester in 
the command in the Low Countries in 1587, distinguished himself 
repeatedly in fight with the Spaniards, and died in 1601. ' Both 
Norris and Turner were famous among the military men of that 
age ' (Percy). In the Roxburgh Ballads the full title of the broad- 
side — which is 'printed for S. Coles in Vine St., near Hatton 
Garden,' — is as follows: — 'A true relation of a famous and bloudy 
Battcll fought in Flanders by tlie noble and valiant Lord Willoughby 
with 1500 English against 40,000 Spaniards, wherein the English 
obtained a notable victory for the glory and renown of our nation. 
Tune : Lord Willoughby.' 

xxvm 

First printed by Tom D'Urfey, Wit and Mirth, etc. (1720), 
vi. 289-91 ; revised by Robert Burns for T/ie Sects Musical Magazine, 
and again by Allan Cunningham for The Songs of Scotland; given 
with many differences, ' long current in Selkirkshire,' in the Min- 
strelsy of the Scottish Border. The present version is a rifaccimento 
from Burns and Scott. It is worth noting that Gn\;me (pronounced 
'Grime'), and Graham are both iorms of one name, which name 
was originally Grimm, and that, according to some, the latter 
orthography is the privilege of the chief of the clan. 



First printed in the Minstrelsy. This time the ' history ' is 
authentic enough. It happetied early in 1596, when Salkeld, the 



NOTES 



347 



Deputy Warden of ihc Western Marches, seized under truce the 
person of William Armstrong of Kinmont — elsewhere described 
as ' Will Kinmonde the common thieffe '—and haled liim to 
Carlisle Castle, whence he was rescued — ' with shouting and 
crying and sound of trumpet' — by the Laird of Bucclcuch, 
Keeper of Liddcsdale, and a troop of two hundred horse. ' The 
Queen of England," says Spottiswoode, 'having notice sent her 
of .what was done, stormed not a little ' ; but see the excellent 
summary compiled by Scott (who confesses to having touched up 
the ballad) for the Minstrelsy. 

Haribee= the gallows hill at Carlisle 

reiver = a border thief, one of a class which lived sparely, fought 
stoutly, entertained the strictest sense of honour and justice, 
went ever on horsebaclc, and carried the art of cattle-lifiing 

to the highest possible point of perfection (^National Observer, 
■^oth May, 1891) 

ye\i = gate marshal men = (T^^^rj s\.e.a.x= stir 

lawing = reckoniiig of law saft = light 

basnet = helmet rank reivev = conwiofi fieyed =frightet!ed 

curch = coif or cap thief bairns = children 

lightly = to scorn herry = harry spier = ask 

in a lo\ve= on fire corbie = crow hcnte= lifted, haled 

slocken = to slake lear = learning maill = rent 

sp\cut= shoulder- vow-footed = rough- iurs = farrows 

piece shod trew = trust 

spauld = shoulder spait = flood Christentie = Chris- 

broken men= (?«/- garred=warf^ tendoni 
laws slogan = battle-cry 



Communicated by Mr. Hunt, — who dates it about 1626 — from 
Seyer's Memoirs, Historical and Topographical, of Bristol and its 
Neighbourhood (1821-23). The full title is The Honour of Bristol; 
shewing how the Angel Gabriel of Bristol fought with three ships, 
who boarded as many times, zuherein we cleared our decks and 
killed five hundred of their men, and zvounded many more, and 
made them fly into Cales, when we lost but three men, to the Honour 
of the Angel Gabriel of Bristol. To the tune Our Noble King in 
his Progress. Cales (13), pronounced as a dissyllable, is of course 
Cadiz. It is fair to add that this spirited and amusing piece of 
doggerel has been severely edited. 



From the Minstrelsy, where it is 'given, without alteration 
or improvement, from the most accurate copy that could be 
recovered.' The story runs that Helen Irving (or Helen Bell), of 



348 NOTES 

Kirkconnell in Dumfriesshire, was beloved by Adam Fleming, and 
(as some say) Bell of Blacket House; that she favoured the first, 
but her people encouraged the second ; that she was thus con- 
strained to tryst with Fleming by night in the churchyard, ' a 
romantic spot, almost surrounded by the river Kirtle ' ; that they 
were"*here surprised by the rejected suitor, who fired at his rival 
from the far bank of the stream ; that Helen, seeking to shield her 
lover, was shot in his stead; and that Fleming, either there and 
then, or afterwards in Spain, avenged her death on the body of 
her slayer. Wordsworth has told the story in a copy of verses 
which shows, like so much more of his work, how dreary a 
poetaster he could be. 

XXXII 

This epic-in-little, as tremendous an invention as exists in verse, 
is from the Minstrelsy : ' as written down from tradition by a lady ' 
(C. Kirkpatrick Sharpe). 

corbies = crows fail-dyke = wa/I of hause-bane = brcast- 

theek = thatch turf bone 



Begim in 1755, and finished and printed (with 77/1? Progress of 
Poetry) in 1757. ' Founded," says the poet, ' on a tradition cur- 
rent in Wales, that Edward the First, when he concluded the 
conquest of that country, ordered all the bards that fell into his 
hands to be put to death.' The 'agonising king' (line 56) is 
Edward II.; the 'she-wolf of France' (57), Isabel his queen; the 
'scourge of heaven ' (60), Edward III.; the 'sable warrior' (67), 
Edward the Black Prince. Lines 75-82 commemorate the rise and 
fall of Richard II. ; lines 83-90, the Wars of the Roses, tlie murders 
in the Tower, the ' faith ' of Margaret of Anjou, the ' fame ' of 
Henry v., the 'holy head' of Henry VI. The ' bristled boar' (93) 
is symbolical of Richard III.; 'half of thy heart' (99) of Eleanor 
of Castile, ' who died a few years after the conquest of Wales.' 
Line no celebrates the accession of the House of Tudor in fulfil- 
ment of the prophecies of Merlin and Taliessin; lines 115-20, 
Queen Elizabeth; lines 128-30, Shakespeare; lines 131-32, Milton; 
and the ' distant warblings ' of line 133, ' the succession of poets 
after Milton's time' (Gray). 



XXXIV, XXXV 

Written, the one in September 1782 (in the August of which year 
the Royal George (108 guns) was overset in Portsmouth Harbour 
with the loss of close on a thousand souls), and the other ' after 
reading Hume's History in 1780' (Benham). 



NOTES 349 



It is worth recalling that at one time Walter Scott attributed 
this gallant lyric, which he printed in the Minstrelsy, to a ' greater 
Graham ' — the Marquis of Montrose. 

XXXVII, XXXVIII 

Of these, the first, Blow High, Blow Low, was sung in The 
Seraglio (1776), a forgotten opera; the second, said to have been 
inspired by the death of the author's brother, a naval officer, in 
The Oddities (1778) — a 'table-entertainment,' where Dibdin was 
author, actor, singer, musician, accompanist, everything but 
audience and candle-snuffer. They are among the first in time of 
his sea-ditties. 

XXXIX 

It is told (Life, W. H. Curran, 1819) that Curran met a deserter, 
drank a bottle, and talked of his chances, with him, and put his 
ideas and sentiments into this song. 

XL 

The Arethusa, Mr. Hannay tells me, being attached to Keppel's 
fleet at the mouth of the Channel, was sent to order the Belle 
Pottle, which v/as cruising with some smaller craft in search of 
Keppel's ships, to come under his stern. The Belle Pottle (com- 
manded by M. Chadeau de la Clocheterie) refusing, the Arethtisa 
(Captain Marshall) opened fire. The ships were lairly matched, 
and in the action which ensued the Arethusa appears to have got 
the worst of it. In the end, after about an hour's fighting, 
Keppel's liners came up, and the Belle Pottle made off. She 
was afterwards driven ashore by a superior English force, and 
it is an odd coincidence that in 1789 the Arethusa ran ashore off 
Brest during her action (loth March) with l' Aigrette. As for the 
French captain, he lived to command I'Herctile, De Grasse's lead- 
ing ship in the great sea-fight (i2(h April 17B2) with Rodney off 
Dominica, where he was killed. 

XLI 
From the Songs of Experience (1794), 



Scots Mtisical Museum, 1788. Adapted from, or rather suggested 
by, the Farewell, which Macpherson, a cateran ' of great personal 
strength and musical accomplishment,' is said to have played and 
sung at the gallows foot ; thereafter iDreaking his violin across his 
knee and submitting his neck to the hangman. 

spring =rt melody in qtiick time sturt = molestation 



350 NOTES 



XLIII 

Musetim, 1796. Burns told Thomson and Mrs. Dunlop that this 
noble and most moving song was old; but nobody believed him 
then, and nobody believes him now. 

ipirit-stoup =//«^- ■p^\(i\'\.= paddled gmd-wWWc = v.'ell-Micant^ 

mug burn = brook full of good-7uill 

braes = hill-sides fiere —friend, com- waught = draught 
go wans = daisies pan ion 

XLIV 

The first four lines are old. The rest were written apparently in 
1788, when the poet sent this song and Auld Lang Hyne to Mrs. 
Dunlop. It appeared in the Museum, 1790. 

tassie = a cup ; Fr. ' tasse ' 

XLV 

About 1777-80: printed 1801. 'One of my juvenile works,' says 
Burns. ' I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits 
or demerits.' But Hazlitt thought the world of it, and now it 
passes for one of Burns's masterpieces. 

trysted = appointed stoure = dust and din 

XI.VI 

Afuseum, 1796. Attributed, in one shape or another, to a certain 
Captain Ogiivie. Sharpe, too, printed a broadside in which the 
third stanza (used more than once by Sir Walter) is found as here. 
But Scott Douglas {Burns, iii. 173) has ' no doubt that this broad- 
side was printed after 1796,' and as it stands the thing is assuredly 
the work of Burns. The refrain and the metrical structure have 
been used by Scott {Rokeby, IV. 28), Carlyle, Charles Kingsley 
{Dolcinofo Margaret), and Mr. Swinburne {A Reiver's Neck Verse), 
among others. 

XLVII— LII 

Of the first four numbers, the high-water mark of Wordsworth's 
achievement, all four were written in 1802; the second and third 
were published iu 1803 ; the first and fourth in 1807. The Ode to 
Duly was written in 1805, and published in 1807, to which year 
belongs that Song for the Feast of Brougham Castle, from whicli 
I have e.xtracted the excellent verses here called Two Victories. 

LIII— LXII 

The first three numbers are from Marmion (1808): I. Introduc- 
tion; V. 12; and VI. 18-20, 25-27, and 33-3-1. The next is 
from The Lady of the Lake (1810), I. 1-9; The Outlaw is from 









NOTES 351 

Rokehy (1S13), III. 16; the Pibroch was published in 1816; The 
Omit ipoteni and The Red Harlaw are from The Antiquary {1816), 
z.wd'Cac Farewell hoxw The Pirate (1821). As for Bonny Dundee, 
that incomparable ditty, it was written as late as 1825. ' The air 
of Bonny Dundee running in my head to-day,' he writes under date 
of 22d December {Diary, 1890, i. 61), 'I wrote a few verses to it 
before dinner, taking the key-note from the story of Clavers leaving 
the Scottish Convention of Estates in 1688-9. / wonder if they are 
good.' See The Doom of Devorgoil (1830), Note A, Act II. sc. 2. 



This unsurpassed piece of art, in which a music the most exquis- 
ite is used to body forth a set of suggestions that seem dictated by 
the very Spirit of Romance, was produced, under the influence of 
' an anodyne,' as early as 1797. Coleridge, who calls it Kubla 
Khan: A Vision within a Dream, avers that, having fallen asleep 
in his chair over a sentence from Purchas's Pilgrimage — 'Here 
the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built and a stately 
garden thereto ; and thus ten miles of ground were enclosed with 
a wall,' — he remained unconscious for about three hours, ' during 
which time he had the most vivid confidence that he could not have 
composed less than three hundred lines ' ; ' if that," he adds, ' can 
be called composition, in which all the images rose up before 
him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent ex- 
pressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort." On 
awakening, he proceeded to write out his ' composition,' and had 
set down as much of it as is printed here, when ' he was unfortu- 
nately called out by a person on business from Porlock,' whose 
departure, an hour after, left him wellnigh oblivious of the rest. 
This confession, which is dated 1S16, has been generally accepted 
as true ; but Coleridge had a trick of dreaming dreams about him- 
self which makes doubt permissible. 



From the Hellenics (written in Latin, 1814-20, and translated into 
English at the instance of Lady Blessington), 1846. See Colvin, 
Lander (' English Men of Letters '), pp. 189, 190. 



LXV— LXVII 

Of the first, ' Napoleon and the British Sailor ' ( The Pilgrim of 
Glencoe, 1842), Campbell writes that the 'anecdote has been pub- 
lished in several public journals, both French and English.' ' My 
belief,' he continues, ' in its authenticity was confirmed by an Eng- 
lishman, long resident in Boulogne, lately telling me that he remem- 
bered the circumstance to have been generally talked of in the 



352 NOTES 

place.' Authentic or not, I have preferred the story to Hohenlinden, 
as less hackneyed, for one thing, and, for anoiher, less pretentious 
and rhetorical. The second {^Gertrude of W'yomhig, 1809) is truly 
one of 'the glories of our birth and state.' The third {idc/n) I 
have ventured to shorten by three stanzas : a proceeding which, 
hoNV'ever culpable it seem, at least gets rid of the chief who gave 
a country's wounds relief by stopping a battle, eliminates the mer- 
maid and her song (the song that ' condoles'), and ends the lyiic 
on as sonorous and romantic a word as even Shakespeare ever 
used. 

LXVIII 

Corn Law Rhymes, 1831. 

LXIX 

From that famous and successful forgery, Cromek's Remains of 
Nithsdale and Gallo^vay Song (1810), written when Allan was a 
working mason in Dumfriesshire. I have omitted a stanza as 
inferior to the rest. 

LXXI 
English Songs and other Small Poems, 1834. 

LXXII — LXXVIII ' 

The first is from the Hebrew Melodies (1815") ; the next is selected 
from The Siege of Corinth (18 16), 22-33; Alhama {idem) is a spir- 
ited yet faithful rendering of the Romance viuy Doloroso del Sitio y 
Toma de yllhama, which existed both in Spanish and in Arabic, and 
whose effect was such that ' it was forbidden to be sung by the 
Moors on the pain of death in Granada ' (Byron) ; No. LXXV., 
surely one of the bravest songs in the language, was addressed 
{idem) to Thomas Moore ; the tremendous Race with Death is 
lifted out of the Ode in Venice (1819) ; for the next number see 
Don Juan, III. (1821) ; the last of all, ' Stanzas inscribed On this 
day I completed my Thirty-sixth year' (1824), is the last verse that 
Byron wrote. 



Napier has described the terrific effect of Napoleon's pursuit; 
but in the operations before Corunna he was distanced, if not oui- 
generalled, by Sir John Moore, and ere the first days of iScg 
he gave his command to Soult, who pressed us vainly through 
th.e hill-country between Leon and Gallicia, and got tieaten at 
Corunna for his pains. Wolfe, who was an Irish parson and 
died of consumption, wrote some spirited verses on the flight 
of Busaco, but this admirable elegy — ' I will show you,' said 



NOTES 353 

Byron to Shelley (Medwin, ii. 154) 'one you have never seen, that 
I consider little if at all inferior to the best, the present prolific age 
has brought forth ' — remains his passport to immortality. It was 
printed, not by tlie author, in an Irish newspaper; was copied all 
over Britain ; was claimed by liar after liar in succession ; and has 
been reprinted more often, perhaps, than any poem of the century. 



From Snarleyow, or the Dog Fiend (1837). Compare Nelson to 
CoUingwood : ' Victory, 25th June, 1805, — May God bless you and 
send you alongside the Saniissima Trinidad.' 



LXXXI, LXXXII 

The story of Casabianca is, I believe, untrue ; but the intention 
of the singer, alike in this number and in the next, is excellent. 
Each indeed is, in its way, a classic. The Alayjlower sailed from 
Southampton in 1626. 



This magnificent sonnet, On First Reading Chapmati's Homer, 
was printed in 1817. The ' Cortez' of the eleventh verse is a mis- 
take ; the discoverer of the Pacific being Nuiiez de Balboa. 



LXXXIV— LXXXVII 

The Lays are dated 1824; they have passed through edition after 
edition ; and if Matthew Arnold disliked and contemned them (see 
Sir F. H. Doyle, Reminiscences and Opinions, pp. 178-87), the gen- 
eral is wise enough to know them by heart. But a book that is ' a 
catechism to fight ' (in Jonson's phrase) would have sinned against 
itself had it taken no account of them, and I have given Horatius in 
its integrity : if only, as Landor puts it, 

To show the British youth, who ne'er 
Will lag behind, what Romans were, 
When all the Tuscans and their Lars 
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars. 

As for The Armada, I have ]5rcferred it to The Battle of Naseby, 
first, because it is neither vicious nor ugly, and the other is both ; 
and, second, because it is so brilliant an outcome of that capacity 
for dealing with proper names which Macaulay, whether poet or 
not, possesses in common with none but certain among the greater 
poets. For The Last Buccaneer (a curious anticipation of some 
effects of Mr. Rudyard Kipling), and that noble thing, the Jacobite's 
Epitaph, they are dated 1839 and 1845 respectively. 



354 NOTES 



The Poetical Works of Robert Stephen Hawker (Kegan Paul, 
1879). By permission of Mrs. R. S. Hawker. ' With the exception 
of the choral lines — 

And shall Trelawney die? 
There's twenty thousand Cornishmen 
Will know the reason why ! — 

and which have been, ever since the imprisonment by James II. of 
the Seven Bishops — one of them Sir Jonathan Trelawney — a 
popular proverb throughout Cornwall, the whole of this song was 
composed by me in the year 1825. I wrote it under a stag-horned 
oak in Sir Beville's Walk in Stowe Wood. It was sent by me 
anonymously to a Plymouth paper, and there it attracted the notice 
of Mr. Davies Gilbert, who reprinted it at his private press at East- 
bourne under the avowed impression that it was the original ballad. 
It had the good fortune to win the eulogy of Sir Walter Scott, who 
also deemed it to be the ancient song. It was praised under the 
same persuasion by Lord Macaulay and Mr. Dickens." — Author's 
Note. 

LXXXIX— XCII 

From The Sea Side and the Fire Side, 1851 ; Birds of Passage, 
Flight the First, and Flight the Second ; and Flower de Luce, 1866. 
Of these four examples of the picturesque and taking art of Long- 
fellow, I need say no more than that all are printed in their integrity, 
with the exception of the first. This I leave the lighter by a moral 
and an application, both of which, superfluous or not, are remote 
irom the general purpose of this book : a confession in which I may 
include the following number, Mr. Whittier's Barbara Frictchie i^In 
War- Time, 1863). 

XCIV 

Nineteenth Century, March 1878 ; Ballads and other Poems, 1880. 
By permission of Alessrs. Macmillan, to whom I am indebted for 
some of my choicest numbers. For the story of Sir Richard Gren- 
ville's heroic death, ' in the last of August,' 1591 — after the Revenge 
had endured the onset of ' fifteen several armadas,' and received 
some ' eight hundred shot of great artillerie,' — see Hakluyt (1598- 
1600), ii. 169-176, where you will find it told with singular animation 
and directness by Sir Walter Raleigh, who held a brief against the 
Spaniards in Sir Richard's case as always. To Sir Richard's pro- 
posal to blow up the ship the master gunner ' readily condescended,' 
as did ' divers others'; but the captain was of 'another opinion,' 
and in the end Sir Richard was taken aboard the ship of the Span- 
ish admiral, Don Alfonso de Razan, who used him well and hon- 
ourably" until he died : leaving to his friends the ' comfort that being 
dead he hath not outlived his own honour," and that he had nobly 



NOTES 355 

shown how false and vain, and therefore how contrary to God's 
will, the ' ambitious and bloudie practices of the Spaniards ' were. 



Tircsias and Other Poems, 1885. By permission of Messrs. 
Macmillan. Included at Lord Tennyson's own suggestion. For 
the noble feat of arms (25th October 1854) thus nobly com- 
memorated, see Kinglake (v. i. 102-66). ' The three hundred 
of the Heavy Brigade who made this famous charge were the 
Scots Greys and the second squadron of Enniskiilings, the re- 
mainder of the " Heavy Brigade " subsequently dashing up to 
their support. The " three " were Scarlett's aide-de-camp, Elliot, 
and the trumpeter, and Shegog the orderly, who had been close 
behind him.' — Author's Note, 



XCVI, XCVII 

The Return of the Guards, and other Poems, 1866. By permis- 
sion of Messrs. Macmillan. As to the first, which deals with an 
incident of the war with China, and is presumably referred to in i860, 
'Some Seiks and a private of the Buffs (or East Kent Regiment) 
having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands 
of the Chinese. On the next morning they were brought before 
the authorities and commanded to perform the Ko iou. The Seiks 
obeyed ; but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would 
not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately 
knocked upon the head and his body thrown upon a dunghill.' — 
Quoted by the author from The Times. The Elgin of line 6 is 
Henry Bruce, eighth Lord Elgin (1811-1863), then Ambassador to 
China, and afterwards Governor-General of India. Compare The- 
ology in Extremis {post, p. 309). Of the second, which Mr. Saints- 
bury describes ' as one of the most lofty, insolent, and passionate 
things concerning this matter that our time has produced,' Sir 
Francis notes that the incident — no doubt a part of the conquest 
of Sindh— was told him by Sir Charles Napier, and that ' Truckee ' 
(line 12)= ' a stronghold in the Desert, supposed to be unassailable 
and impregnable.' 

XCVIII, XCIX 

By permission of Messrs. Smith, Elder, and Co. Dramatic 
Lyrics, 1845; Cornhill Magazine, June 1871, and Pacchiarotto, 
1876, Works, iv. and xiv. I can find nothing about Herve Riel. 

c— cm 

The two first are from the ' Song of ^Tyself,' Leaves of Grass 
(1855); the others from Drum Taps (1865). ?>&e Leaves of Grass 
(Philadelphia, 1884), pp. 60, 62-63, 222, and 246. 



356 NOTES 



CIV, cv 

By permission of Messrs. Macrnillan. Dated severally 1857 and 
1859. 

cvi 

Edinburgh Coiirat7t, 1852. Compare The Loss of the' Birkenhead' 
in The Return of the Guards, and other Poems (Macmillan, 18S3), 
pp. 256-58. Of the troopship Birkenhead 1 note that she sailed 
from Queenstown on the 7th January 1852, with close on seven 
hundred souls on board; that the most of these were soldiers — of 
the Twelfth Lancers, the Si.xtieth Riifes, the Second, Sixtii, Forty- 
third, Forty-fifth, Seventy-third, Seventy-fourth, and Ninety-first 
Regiments; that she struck on a rock (26th Feljruary 1852) off 
Simon's Bay, South Africa; that the boats would hold no more 
than a hundred and thirty-eight, and that, the women and children 
being safe, the men that were left — four hundred and fifty-four, all 
told — -were formed on deck by their officers' and went down with 
the ship, true to colours and discipline till the end. 



By permission of Messrs. Macmillan. From Einpedocles on Etna 
(1853). As regards the second number, it may be noted that Soh- 
rab, being in quest of his father Rustum, to whom he is unknown, 
offers battle as one of the host of the Tartar King Afrasiab, to any 
champion of the Persian Kai Kliosroo. The challenge is accepted 
by Rustum, who fights as a nameless knight (like Wilfrid of Ivan- 
hoe at the Gentle and Joyous Passage of Ashby), and so becomes 
the unwitting slayer of his son. For the story of the pair the poet 
refers his readers to Sir John Malcom's History of Persia. See 
Poems, by Matthew Arnold (Macmillan), i. 268, 269. 

CX, CXI 

lonica (Allen, 1891). By permission of the Author. School 
Fencibles (1861) was 'printed, not published, in 1877.' The Ballad 
for a Boy, Mr. Cory writes, ' was never printed till this year.' 



By permission of the Author. This ballad, which was suggested, 
Mr. Meredith tells me, by the story of Bendigeid Vran, the son of 
Llyr, in the Afabiitogion (iii. 121-9) , is reprinted from Modern Love 
(1862), but it originally appeared {circ. i860) in Once a lVeeh,a. 
forgotten print the source of not a little unforgotten stuff— as Evan 
Harrington and the first part of The Cloister and the Hearth. 



From the fourth and last book of Sigurd the Volsung, 1877. 
By permission of the Author. Hogni and Gunnar, being the 



I 



1 



NOTES 357 

guests of King Atli, husband to their sister Gudrun, refused to tell 
him the whereabouts of the treasure of Fafnir, whom Sigurd slew ; 
and this is the manner of their taking and the beginning of King 
Atli's vengeance. 

CXIV 

English Illustrated Magazine, January 1890, and Lyrical Poems 
(Macmillan, 1891). By permission of the Author: with whose 
sanction I have omitted four lines from the last stanza. 



By permission of Sir Alfred Lyall. Cornhill Magazine, Sep- 
tember 1868, and Verses Written itt India (Kegan Paul, 1S89). 
The second title is : A Soliloquy that may have been delivered in 
India, June 1857; and this is further explained by the following 
'extract from an Indian newspaper': — 'They would have spared 
life to any of iheir English prisoners who should consent to profess 
Mahometanism by repeating the usual short formula ; but only one 
half-caste cared to save himself that way.' Then comes the de- 
scription, Moriturus Loquitur, and next the poem. 

CXVI— CXVIII 

From Songs before Sunrise (Chatto and Windus, 1877), and the 
third series of Poems and Ballads (Chatto and Windus, 1S89). By 
permission of the Author. 

CXJX, cxx 

The Complete Poetical Works of Bret Harte (Chatto and Windus, 
1S86). By permission of Author and Publisher. The Reveille \<zs. 
spoken before a Union Meeting at San Francisco at the beginning 
of the Civil War and appeared in a volume of the Author's poems 
in 1867. What the Bullet Sang is much later work : dating, thinks 
Mr. Harte, from '79 or '80. 



St. "James's Afagazine, October 1877, and At the Sign of the Lyre 
(Kegan Paul, 1889). By permission of the Author. 

CXXII 

St. James's Gazette, 20th July i883,and Grass of Parnassus (Long- 
iiians, 1888). By permission of Author and Publisher. Written in 
n-.emory of Gordon's betrayal and death, but while there were yet 
liiipes and rumours of escape. 

CXXIII 

Underwoods (Chatto and Windus, 1886). By permission of the 
Publishers. 



358 NOTES 



Love's Looking- Glass (Percival, 1891). By permission of the 
Author. 



Mnc7nillan's Magazine, November iS8g. By permission of the 
Author. Kamal Khan is a Pathan ; and the scene of this exploit 
— which, I am told, is perfectly consonant with the history and tra- 
dition of Guides and Pathans both — is the North Frontier country 
in the Peshawar-Kohat region, say, between Abazai and Bonair, 
behind which is stationed the Punjab Irregular Frontier Force — 
' the steel head of the lance couched for the defence of India." As 
for tlie Queen's Own Corps of Guides, to the general ' God's Own 
Guides ' (from its e.xclusivenessand gallantry), it comprehends both 
liorse and foot, is recruited from Sikhs, Pathans, Rajputs, Afglians, 
all the fighting races, is officered both by natives and by English- 
men, and in all respects is worthy of this admirable ballad. 

Ressaldar = the native leader of a ressala or troop of horse 
Tongue = a barren and naked strath — ' what geologists call a fan ' 
Gut of the Tongue = the ?iarroxvest part of the strath 
dust-devils = dust-clouds blown by a whirlwind 

CXXVI 

National Observer, 4th April 1891. At the burning of the Court- 
House at Cork, ' Above the portico a flagstaff bearing the Union 
Jack remained fluttering in the air for some time, but ultimately 
when it fell the crowds rent the air with shouts, and seemed to see 
significance in the incident.' — DAILY Papers. Author's Note. 



INDEX 



A good sword and a trusty hand . 

All is finished ! and at length 

Alone stood brave Horatius .... 

Amid the loud ebriety of war 

And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face, and said 

Arm, arm, arm, arm ! the scouts are all come in 

As I was walking all alane .... 

Ask nothing more of me, sweet 

As the spring-tides, with heavy plash 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay . 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay 

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's 

praise ..... 
Attend you, and give ear awhile . 
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 
A wet sheet and a flowing sea 

Beat ! beat ! drums ! — blow ! bugles ! blow ! 

Bid me to live, and I will live 

Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear 

Build me straight, O worthy Master 

But by the yellow Tiber 

But see ! look up — on Flodden bent 

By this, though deep the evening fell 

Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms 
Come, all ye jolly sailors bold 

359 



PAGE 
207 
217 
196 
264 
280 

3 

79 
316 

153 

227 
232 



73 

28 

148 

257 
18 
89 

208 

183 
116 
119 

27 
92 



3G0 



INDEX 



Condemned to Hope's delusive mine 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud . 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone .... 

Day by day the vessel grew 

Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark 

Eleven men of England ..... 

England, queen of the waves, whose green inviolate 

girdle enrings thee round .... 
Erie Douglas on his milke-white steede 

Fair stood the wind for France .... 
Farewell ! farewell ! the voice you hear . 
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong 

Get np ! get up for shame ! The blooming morn . 
God prosper long our noble king .... 

God who created me ...... 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine .... 

Good Lord Scroope to the hills is gane 

Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be 
Hark ! I hear the tramp of thousands . 
He has called him forty Marchmen bold 
Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling . 
He spoke, and as he ceased he wept aloud . 
He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts . 
He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood 
High-spirited friend ...... 

How happy is he born or taught .... 

I am the mashed fireman with breast-bone broken 
If doughty deeds my lady please .... 

If sadly thinking 

I love contemplating, apart ..... 



INDEX 



361 



In the ship-yard stood the Master , 
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan . 
Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom 
I said, when evil men are strong . 
Is hfe worth hving? Yes, so long 
It is not growing like a tree , 
It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
It is not yours, O mother, to complain 
It was a' for our rightfu' King 
I wish I were where Helen lies 



Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side 
King Philip had vaunted his claims 

Lars Porsena of Clusium ..... 
Last night, among his fellow-roughs 

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour . 
Mortality, behold and fear ..... 
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold . 
My boat is on the shore ..... 

My dear and only love, I pray .... 

Next morn the Baron climbed the tower 

Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the north-west died 

away ........ 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 

Now all the youth of England are on fire 

Now entertain conjecture of a time 

Now fell the sword of Gunnar, and rose up red in the 

air ........ . 

Now the noon was long passed over when again the 

rumour arose ....... 

Now we bear the king ...... 

Now while the Three were tightening . 
Now word is gane to the bold Keeper • 



PAGE 
2IO 
136 

308 

13 
lOI 

326 

99 

77 

329 
324 

179 
242 

102 

IS 
179 
164 

31 

114 

248 

172 

2 

4 

297 

304 
10 

189 
67 



362 



INDEX 



O born in days when wits were fresh and clear 

O Brignall banks are wild and fair 

O England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and 

-Jiigh 

Of Nelson and the North .... 

O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend 

Oft in the pleasant summer years . 

O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde 

O how comely it is, and how reviving . 

O joy of creation ...... 

O Mary, at thy window be ... . 

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee . 
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred and 
ninety-two ...... 

Othere. the old sea-captain .... 

Our English archers bent their bowes . 

O Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls . 

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west . 



though his 



harp 



Pibroch of Donuil Dhu . 
Ruin seize thee, rutbless King 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 
Simon Danz has come home again 
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God 
Still the song goeth up from Gunnar, 

to earth be laid 
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright 



Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind . 
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 
The boy stood on the burning deck 
The breaking waves dashed high . 
The captain stood on the carronade : ' First Lieutenant,' 
says he • . 



174 



INDEX 

The charge of the gallant three hundred, the Heavy 

Brigade ..... 
The fifteenth day of July 
The forward youth that would appear 
The glories of our birth and state . 
The herring loves the merry moonlight 
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece 
The King sits in Dunfermline town 
The last sunbeam .... 
The Moorish King rides up and down 
The newes was brought to Eddenborrow 
The night is past, and shines the sun 
The Sea! the Sea, the open Sea . 
The stag at eve had drunk his fill . 
The weary day rins down and dies 
The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling 
Then speedilie to wark we gaed . 
Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began 
Then with a heavy groan, Rustum bewailed 
This, this is he; softly a while 
Through the black, rushing smoke bursts 
Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies 
Tiger, tiger, burning bright . 
'Tis time this heart should be unmoved 

Toll for the Brave 

To mute and to material things 

To my true king I offered free from stain 

To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who spoke 

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 

Up from the meadows rich with corn 

Vain is the dream ! However Hope may rave 

We come in arms, we stand ten score . 
Welcome, wild north-easter .... 



363 

PAGE 

60 

34 
20 

131 

167 

57 
258 
160 

56 
151 
149 
121 

319 
205 

269 

277 

30 

265 

3 

94 
171 

85 
107 
206 

134 
40 

230 

325 

2S4 
262 



364 



INDEX 



When George the Third was reigning a hundred years 
ago 

When I consider how my light is spent . 

When I have borne in memory what has tamed 

When Love with unconfined wings 

When the British warrior queen .... 

When the head of Bran ..... 

Where the remote Bermudas ride .... 

W^hy sitt'st thou by that ruined hall 

Winds of the World, give answer ! They are whimper 
ing to and fro ...... 

With stout Erie Percy, there was slaine 

Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight 

Ye Mariners of England ..... 

Ye shall know that in Atli's feast-hall on the side that 
joined the house ...... 

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more . 



2^5 
29 

lOI 

33 
S6 

290 
39 

130 

335 

54 

255 

143 

293 
21 



Typography by J. S. Gushing & Co., Boston. 
Presswork by Berwick & Smith, Boston. 



V 



' »»»»»»> ^ LIST OF VOLUMES OF 
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W. C. BROWNELL. 

French Traits. An Essay in Comparative 
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— Sense and Sentiment — Manners — Women — The Art 

Instinct — The Provincial Spirit — -Democracy — New York 
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Chopin, and Otiier Musical Essays. (i2mo, 
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Pianoforte — How Composers Work — Schumann as Mirrored 
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Short Studies on Great Subjects. (Half 
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contents : 

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Gleanings of Past Years, 1843- 1879. (7 
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BRANDER MATTHEWS. 

French Dramatists of the 19TH Century 
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English Lands, Letters and Kings. Vol. I., 
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Reveries of a Bachelor ; or, .A. Book of the 
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Seven Stories with Basement and Attic — 
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HENRY VAN DYKE, D.D. 

The Poetry of Tennyson. (JVew Ed., in 
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